


All The Way To Your Door

by kyluxtrashcompactor



Series: structural fabrications [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: A Lot of Irish People Getting Drunk, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8532310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyluxtrashcompactor/pseuds/kyluxtrashcompactor
Summary: Six months ago, Armitage Hux fabricated a fiancé, never expecting to have to drag him to a funeral in Georgia, pretending to be something they weren't. The problem was, Ben Solo was everything Hux had ever wanted.Ben Solo had hidden his love for his roommate for years, thinking that someone as perfect as Hux would never want a broken soldier like him. But he was wrong.Sometimes you have to tell a lie to find the truth.





	1. Six Foot Hole

**Author's Note:**

> Please ignore the orphan account thing. It was a friend trying to help me put art up. I'll try to get it removed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been a full series minor character edit in this fic. It is not important to the story.

**_May you have warm words on a cold evening,_ **

**_A full moon on a dark night,_ **

**_And the road downhill all the way to your door._ **

**_-Irish Blessing_ **

 

The summer evening is warm. The residual heat of a fat yellow sun lingers through twilight, broken up and made tolerable, even pleasant, by a soft breeze that smells of wisteria. It grows along a wooden trellis framing the entrance to Hux’s brownstone walk-up, and as he’s standing beneath it now with his date, he thinks that perhaps he’s never been this lonely.

“I had a nice time,” Hux finds himself saying. It’s true, honestly. Or, rather, he hadn’t had a _bad_ time, even if that isn’t quite the same thing. He clutches his foil-covered takeout bowl to his chest, trying valiantly to suppress the unwarranted flight response that is making him shift his weight from one foot to the other. Hux has seen Dopheld Mitaka’s eyes flicker to his lips more than once since pausing here, where Hux is resolutely not inviting him upstairs.

“I had a nice time as well,” Mitaka says, hovering just a bit too snugly in Hux’s personal space, looking as though he wants to say more.

It’s not that he doesn’t like the man; it was Hux that had asked him out after all, following months of catching furtive glances and politely returning shy smiles, and a little persistent elbowing in his side from Phasma.

 _“You’re in bed by eight on Saturday night with computer code for company,”_ Phasma had told him one evening. _“You need to put yourself out there.”_

And so he had. They’d done the usual thing: drinks at their after-work dive, dinner at a nice little Italian place on Fourth Avenue. Technically speaking, there wasn’t anything objectionable about the experience. Not overtly, at least. There had simply been one too many miniscule moments of awkwardness - Hux having to scoot to the other side of the booth when Mitaka sat too close, the way he’d managed to ask just the wrong question about Hux’s family, and how it had made Hux slightly squeamish when Mitaka tried to pay for his dinner. Not only that, but their conversation had always come back to work, to code and inefficient workflow. They are too much alike in that regard. The sum is just off; the expression is missing variables.

Mitaka reaches out to run a thumb softly over Hux’s knuckles where they are white against his takeout dish, and the bowl subsequently makes a delicate _crunching_ sound as it contracts in Hux’s hands.

Mitaka gives him a radiant smile that suggests he did not even notice, and then says, “I’d like to see you again, Armitage.” 

And there’s _another_ thing. Hux _hates_ being called Armitage, and he wonders if Mitaka thinks he’s being clever by demonstrating he’s somehow gotten around the fact that Hux has all but eradicated his first name on anything official at work.

“I had a nice time,” Hux repeats noncommittally, voice a bit stiffer. “I’ll see you at work on Monday?”

Mitaka glances to the stoop of Hux’s walk-up, the door that leads to Hux’s apartment, and gathers at last that he is not going to be invited inside. He nods then and plasters on a smile that manages to be both wounded and understanding. It makes Hux’s throat tight.

“Yes,” Mitaka says. “Goodnight, then.”

Hux waves a brief one-handed goodbye as Mitaka sets off for the train station, glancing back once over his shoulder. Tugging his phone out of his pocket, Hux taps out a message to Phasma that reads simply: _I prefer my computer._

He replaces the phone, ignoring the near instant vibration that is undoubtedly Phasma’s scathing reply, and trudges up the steps. His feet feel heavier, as though he’s been awake for several days, and run a marathon on top of that. He slips his key in the lock of his ground floor flat and considers that he’d left here three hours before with such a sense of hope. 

Hux sighs as he steps inside, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. He is wrenched out of his somber self-reflection rapidly, however, by a number of things. First, every light in the apartment is on, and it makes a muscle in his cheek twitch. The television is playing Star Wars at full volume, and there is a cacophonous wail just distinguishable as Black Sabbath coming from the room at the end of the hall. Ben’s room. 

Hux glances to his right, where the living room and kitchen are bisected by a granite-topped island. Ben is rifling through the refrigerator, bottles clinking, while a pot boils furiously on the stove, bubbles foaming over the edge.

“Ben!” Hux cries, melancholy forgotten in his panicked ire. “You’re boiling over!”

His roommate stands up, closing the refrigerator door and popping open a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Shit,” he growls, moving quickly to pull the pot off the burner. Sipping his beer, he turns a knob to reduce the heat, and then drags the pot back on, sloshing water all over the stove as he does. Hux blows out an exasperated sigh, fingers twitching with the desire to snatch up a dish towel and clean up the mess.

As though hearing Hux’s thoughts, Ben makes to do just that, although he merely grabs the first absorbent object that comes to hand: an oven mitt. He’s swiping at the water with it before Hux can even formally object. With a resigned groan, Hux drops his takeout on the counter and sinks down onto a bar stool.

Ben sips his beer and eyes his roommate. “How was the date?”

Hux shrugs. “It was a date.”

“That bad, huh?” Ben picks up a wooden spoon and stirs the pasta he’s boiling.

Hux finds himself thinking that he would rather have stayed home tonight and eaten whatever pitiful excuse for Italian food Ben is concocting. They have been roommates for almost two years, and friends for most of that time. After they’d gotten past the initial awkward phase of dancing around one another as they determined boundaries and preferences, Hux genuinely enjoyed Ben’s company. 

At twenty-nine, Ben is younger than Hux by five years, but Hux has always thought the man to have an old soul. Perhaps it is the military experience that Ben never speaks about, or the family he doesn’t seem to have. He plays his music too loudly, he leaves dishes in the sink past the twenty-four hour agreed upon deadline, he sometimes steals Hux’s gourmet coffee creamer, and he tends to leave the door open when he showers, but Hux doesn’t think he’d trade him.

He’s grateful, even, when Ben opens the refrigerator door again and rifles out another can of Pabst, opens it, and sets it in front of his roommate. Hux hates cheap piss beer, but right now he is just glad for the alcohol content and the familiar camaraderie.

Ben leans against the opposite side of the counter, eyes flicking to the television and lips curling into a smile at something on the screen before his attention returns to Hux. 

“Wanna talk about it?”

Hux sips his beer and intends to say _no, not at all_ , but Ben is regarding him with honest interest, which isn’t something Hux has enough of in his human interactions. His fellow software engineers are by and large a squirrelly lot, with a handful of people skills between them, and Hux supposes he’d be at least marginally at risk for decompensation if not for Ben’s colorful company.

“I should really take you up on the offer to teach me to play Call of Warfare,” Hux complains. “It seems like everyone in my field is obsessed with those games. I hardly have anything to talk about to interest anyone.” This isn’t entirely true. Mitaka hadn’t mentioned video games, but Hux is hesitant to delve into the truly personal details by divulging just how lonely he is. He raises an eyebrow when Ben starts chuckling.

“Call of Duty, Hux. Not Call of Warfare.” 

“Whatever.” Hux rolls his eyes and drains half his beer, trying not to wince at the taste. Ben is smiling at him.

“You have plenty of interesting stuff to talk about,” he tells Hux.

Hux grunts dubiously. “Yeah? Like what?”

Ben flicks the tab on his beer can, and it makes an obnoxious _pinging_ sound that captures Hux’s attention while Ben talks, such that it takes a few moments for his words to sink in.

“Well, there’s that disaster of a trip you went on after you graduated from college. There’s your field study in grad school. The time you met the Secretary of Defense. Your secret adventures in ethical hacking…”

Hux has looked back up now, surprised at the way Ben is rattling off these things with genuine appreciation. He realizes that he’d not really expected Ben to remember any of the trivia about Hux’s life that he’d imparted over the years in passing conversation. Their eyes meet for a span of long seconds as Hux considers whether he is equally as versed in Ben’s history, but his attention is wrenched away once more by the boiling pot on the stove.

Ben glances over his shoulder the moment Hux focuses on the erupting water, and utters another string of vibrant curse words as he turns the heat off and then jabs at the pasta with a spoon.

“Great,” he mutters. “I’m the only asshole on Earth who can’t boil noodles.” He pulls the pot from the stove and sets it in the sink, running cold water into it.

Hux has circled the island and come to stand beside Ben, peering down at the mass of congealed pasta.

Ben gives him a sidelong look. “Now you have to take _me_ out to dinner, since this is your fault.”

Hux looks at him sharply, a flicker of surprise drowned out by a surge of regret when he sees the amusement plain on Ben’s face, the jest sparkling in his dark eyes. Hux returns his attention to the mess in the sink to hide the damnable flush that comes so easily to his pale cheeks.

“You can’t scrape this out with anything metal, Ben,” he says, perhaps a little too harshly. “Use the wooden spoon, and…”

“I know, Hux,” Ben sighs. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

Ben sounds miffed, and when Hux looks at him again, his brows are knit, one corner of his lips turned down in a scowl. Hux immediately feels badly for barking at him.

“I’ve reached my quota for public appearances for the day, but we could order a pizza,” he offers in a conciliatory tone.

Ben looks at him, and for a moment Hux thinks he is going to refuse, but then his expression clears and he smiles. “You’re buying.”

Hux actually would have bought the pizza, just because he figures that is the sort of thing one does when they’re being nice, but Ben still beats him to the door when the bell rings half an hour later. Afterward, they are ensconced side by side on the couch, Ben with his ham and pineapple slice and a beer, with Hux having graduated to scotch. Hux’s orange tabby, Millicent, is asleep beside his thigh, purring loudly.

Hux is trying to pay attention to Star Wars, and thinking that the Death Star has abysmally inadequate defensive capabilities, when his phone rings. Pulling it from his pocket, he sees that it’s his mother. Thumbing the _end call_ button, he tucks a foot under him on the couch and watches as Luke Skywalker races across the surface of the doomed Imperial weapon.

Then his phone rings again. It’s his mother, again. Annoyed, he accepts the call and holds it up to his ear.

“Mother, now is not the best time. Can I call you later?” His tone is clipped, and he instantly regrets it with a thrill of alarm when he realizes his mother is crying. His discomfiture must show on his face because Ben is looking at him with concern.

Hux pushes himself off the couch, striding to the glass door that leads to the patio. “Mum?” he says as he pushes the door open and slips outside into the quiet summer evening. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

 _“I’m not okay,”_ she says. _“Armie, your father…”_

Hux winces at the nickname. No matter how assiduously he’s tried to divest his mother of it, she is unwilling to let it go. Neither of his parents would compromise on his attempt to assign himself a name of his own choosing during a rebellious ninth grade streak, either. In fact, his father had been rather righteously offended, as Hux was rejecting both Armitage—which was his grandfather’s name—and the middle name he’d been given for his father: Brendol.

Hux presses his palm over his ear, blocking out the din of passing cars. “What about Dad?” he says loudly into the receiver.

On the other end, his mother’s sobbing cuts off in a shallow breath. _“Armie, he passed away this evening. He’s left us.”_

“He…what?” Hux’s knees suddenly feel like jelly, and he gropes behind him for one of the patio chairs. He collapses into it heavily.

 _“He’s gone, honey. I’m so sorry. I know you two didn’t always see eye-to-eye, and I wish you hadn’t fought with each other that last time... Oh god, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”_ She starts sobbing harder, but muffled now, like she’s covering the phone with her hand.

Hux cannot respond for a long, numb moment, his mother’s words merely clawing at the surface of his comprehension, refusing to sink in. He can feel Ben’s eyes on him from the living room, though Hux cannot bring himself to turn and meet his questioning gaze.

“When…when is the wake?” Hux finally manages. It’s a practical question.

_“This weekend. We’ll have it here, where he was happiest.”_

Hux doesn’t know about that. Brendol Hux hadn’t been happy since retiring from military service. “I’ll try to get a plane ticket,” he says, instantly regretting the choice of words.

_“Try? Armitage Brendol Hux, this was your father! I need you here. And I want you to bring your fiancé. I don’t know how much comfort I’ll be, and well...you’ll need him here.”_

Hux feels his whole face heat up. The truth is that he doesn’t _have_ a fiancé, and he never did. He’d made that up in a defensive fit during a fight with his father about grandchildren, among other things. And he’d picked the only person he had a picture of on his phone to wave in Brendol’s face: his roommate, Ben.

“Mother I don’t feel like that’s a good idea. This isn’t the best time to introduce him to—”

_“You should have already done it, Armitage! It’s too late for your father now. You could have… Lord Jesus in Heaven, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”_

Hux’s heart is thumping erratically, ears ringing. He tries a different approach to escape this sinking ship. “Look, he’s working, Mother.”

_“If Benjamin loves you he’ll get the time off.”_

“Mother that is not fair.” _Fucking hell_ , _could this get any messier?_

 _“Well life isn’t fair, is it?_ ” Her logic is sound. She sniffs and adds, _“I’ll ready up your old room for you two. I’m sure Ben won’t mind seeing what you were like as a teenager.”_

Hux’s head is spinning now, and if he weren’t sitting already, he might have fainted. He opens his mouth to tell her the truth—that he’d been lying about being engaged for more than half a year—but he can’t bring himself to add something more to her burden. He swallows, and rasps out a meek confirmation. He barely hears the remainder of the conversation, mumbling acknowledgements to the myriad details his mother lays out. At last, she tells him at length how much she loves him, and they hang up.

Hux sits for a long time on the patio, twilight deepening around him, the city street dappled with color from passing car lights. He’s dimly aware that he is clutching his phone tightly enough that the edges of the case are biting painful grooves into his palm. He uncurls his fingers and thumbs a password in, scrolling through his directory absently until he finds the icon of his father’s bearded face next to the words _Old Man_.

Swallowing, Hux blinks back hot tears and turns the phone over. He forces himself to think about how often they’d fought, how many hurtful things Brendol Hux had said to him over the years. He needs that bulwark against the flood of insurmountable emotions roiling in his chest. He’s not ready for this.

Hux jerks in surprise when the glass door slides open, even though the sound is soft. He turns his head and blinks up at Ben, who is casting a long shadow across him.

“Hey,” Ben says. “You all right?” His brow is creased with concern.

Hux waves the phone in his hand as though that has an answer for Ben, then says, “My dad just died,” and starts laughing. It’s a high-pitched, panicked sound, and Hux immediately covers his mouth with a wrist, biting down on the fabric of his shirt.

“Hux…” Ben’s voice is low, tone cautious, and he lifts a hand to Hux’s shoulder. Squeezing gently, Ben uses his other hand to drag a patio chair closer. As he sinks down onto it their knees brush, and the hand on Hux’s shoulder trails down his back with comforting friction. Sound from the television blends into the monotonous noise of the street below, though it’s like someone has turned the cosmic volume down, and all Hux hears clearly is the jumbled cacophony of disbelief in his head.

That, and Ben’s voice.

“I’m so sorry, Hux,” he says, that big hand moving back up along Hux’s spine, making him want to lean into it. He wants to bury his face in Ben’s shoulder and weep, but he won’t, afraid that if he starts, he won’t stop.

Hux’s manic laughter subsides into quivering shudders, and he scrubs at his nose with the back of one hand. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he nods. “It’s okay.”

Ben’s hand pauses, thumb and forefinger poised at the base of Hux’s neck, and Hux glances over in time to see his roommate’s brow furrow and the corner of his lips twitch. To his credit, Ben doesn’t refute Hux’s statement, inane and untrue though it may be.

“What can I do for you?” he asks instead.

Hux can’t help the compulsive internal response: _Get on a plane and come to Georgia with me and pretend to be engaged to me since I’m too pathetic to really have a partner, and oh, by the way, I already told my parents we were getting married because I wanted to upset my father and I haven’t spoken to him since._

Instead he takes a deep, quavering breath and tries to plaster a smile on. It feels stiff, awkward, and Ben’s eyes crease.

“I could use a drink.” It’s the first thing Hux thinks of - a mundane, safe request to which it’s easy enough for Ben to acquiesce.

Ben opens his mouth, closes it again, then traces a comforting circle with his palm between Hux’s shoulderblades. “I’ll make you one,” he offers. “Do you want to stay out here?”

Hux thinks about it for a moment, then shakes his head. “I’ll come inside.” He sounds remarkably calm in his own ears.

Ben nods and unfolds himself from the chair, and Hux instantly misses the pressure of Ben’s hand on his back. Following him back through the patio door, Hux sinks down onto the couch again as Ben gathers Hux’s empty whiskey glass from the coffee table. Hux watches him move to the kitchen, opening the freezer to take out ice, and Hux is transported to that night back in Georgia half a year ago when he’d last spoken to his father. When Ben had unwittingly become Hux’s fictional fiancé.

_They are standing in the kitchen, Hux and his father. His mother is at the table, working a crossword. Hux is standing before the open freezer door, cracking ice from a tray and dropping it into his tumbler. Brendol is sipping his own cocktail, having followed Hux from the living room to continue his story about Hux’s younger brother._

_“Did I tell you that wife of his bakes a mean Shepherd’s pie?” Brendol’s bushy, half-white eyebrows go up in that way that indicates he feels intensely about a thing._

_Hux rolls his eyes as he tugs the whiskey bottle out of the abundantly apportioned liquor cabinet over the stove. The ice cubes jingle as he pours two fingers of Glendalough into his glass. He starts to cap the bottle, then pours a little more._

_“You’ve told me a hundred times, Da,” he grunts._

_Brendol points at him with his glass, the liquid inside nearly sloshing over. “It’s high time you got yourself a woman like that, Armitage.”_

_Hux sees his mother raise her head from the crossword, her pen frozen above it. Hux bristles and ignores the jibe with a tight frown._

_“Domhnall and Holly are going to make your mother and I grandparents before you, and he’s ten years younger than you!” Brendol’s eyebrows are nearly at his hairline._

_Hux slaps his glass onto the counter, and his mother scoots her chair back, stands up._

_“I’m never going to give you grandchildren, Da. Which you know perfectly well, so you don’t need to keep bringing it up!” That might not be totally true, about the grandchildren. He won’t have a partner that will ever bear any, but there are other ways. He’s too bitter to think about that in the moment, though._

_“Armie…” Aislain Hux touches his elbow, which is quivering. She squeezes with her familiar ‘don’t fight with your father’ warning, but Hux doesn’t care._

_Brendol barrels past the heavy admission Hux has delivered. “The least you can do is settle down and come home for the holidays. Find you a decent girl.”_

_Hux’s throat is tight, and his mother’s nails are digging into his arm with her own anxiety at this impending explosion. Impulsively, Hux tugs his phone out of his pants pocket, nearly drops it, pokes some buttons, and finds the first picture of a man he comes across. It’s his roommate, Ben Solo, sitting on the terrace of the bar down the street from their apartment. His long, roguish black hair is teased into a halo around his glowing face, slightly crooked teeth white in a huge smile, mid laugh, eyes sparkling. Hux thrusts the picture into Brendol’s face, inches from the glasses perched on his nose, so his father has to cross his eyes to look at it._

_“This is Ben. My_ fiancé. _”_

What Hux had thought such a declaration would solve, he is still not sure. His father had been aware for years that Hux preferred men, but Brendol had honed a maddeningly boorish way of pretending not to know. It was that, partly, that they’d fought over that night, as well as Hux’s impatience with the constant comparisons to his younger brother. The result had been that Hux had stormed out, half drunk, and walked the two miles to town where he’d checked into the only motel in Tully.

His mother had come around the next morning to try to patch things up, but Hux was hungover and uninterested in forgiveness. Instead, she’d driven him to the airport in Atlanta and asked questions about Ben the entire time, which, trying to avoid the topic of his father, Hux had answered.

_What does he do for a living? What’s his family like? What do you two do for fun?_

Some of it Hux had made up, some he knew. Ben’s a security consultant, which Hux assumes is a sort of specialty he acquired in the military service he either can’t, or won’t talk about. They watch a lot of movies, which mostly Ben picks, but Hux invariably enjoys. They talk about politics. Hux watches Ben play video games and offers commentary Ben may or may not appreciate.

When it comes to Ben’s family, though, Hux doesn’t know much about them; just that they are estranged, which Hux understands intimately. While they are mostly okay now, it hadn’t always been smooth sailing with Hux’s own family.

With a start, Hux is pulled back to the present moment, realizing just how _not okay_ things are.

 _Time_ , Hux thinks to himself as Ben puts a glass of scotch in his hand and settles on the couch beside him. Hux had thought he’d have more _time_. Not just to casually dig himself out of the six-foot hole he’d dug with his lie about having a fiancé, but to reconnect with his father.

“I hadn’t spoken to him in half a year,” he says aloud, lamenting it to himself as much as informing Ben, who sips his beer and frowns. Hux thinks the dark expression is sympathy. “I didn’t even mean for it to be that way.” Hux rests the glass of scotch on his knee, stares into its amber depths. “I kept meaning to call. I stopped being mad at him not long after I left home. It’s not like anything we fought over was new. And he…” Hux’s throat is suddenly tight, and he takes a drink. He notices that his fingers are pale, trembling. It’s shock, probably. He’s cold, too.

He feels Ben’s eyes on him, dark and hawk-like, and the air is heavy for a time with unsaid things. Hux’s thought process is little more than a series of images, flickering one after the other through his mind. _Brendol and him at the pond behind the house, fishing. Brendol dressed up as Santa Claus for Christmas and drunk as a skunk, always making his boys laugh. Grilling hot dogs on the back deck. Sitting in his rocking chair on the porch, armed with a fly-swatter._

Ben’s hand on his knee startles him out of this miserable reverie once again, and Hux blinks at him, realizing his eyes are swimming. He desperately does not want to cry, as that will serve only to cement this as truly, undeniably real.

“I’m here if you need anything,” Ben says gently. He looks as though he wants to say more, but doesn’t.

Hux nods mechanically and nearly blurts out his secret, but nerves get the better of him. Instead, he drains the rest of his scotch and gives Ben a weak smile. “Thank you. Really. I think I’m just going to go to bed."

Ben nods as well, removing the hand from Hux’s knee to pick up the remote control, thumbing the television off. Music still blasts from his bedroom down the hall, and Ben seems only to notice it at that moment.

“I’ll be up for a little while, if you need…anything,” he says, giving Hux one last glance before he stands and shuffles barefoot down the hallway. A moment later the music clicks off, and Hux is alone in silence on the couch, clutching his empty glass.

Hux sits there for a long moment, mind blank and shoulders heavy, before he finally forces himself up and into his bedroom. He goes through the motions of getting ready for bed in a robotic fashion, and climbs beneath the blankets at half-past ten.

He’s still awake at 1:00 A.M. He can see a ribbon of yellow light beneath his door, meaning Ben is up as well, and the thought is driving Hux to distraction. He can’t possibly tell Ben the truth, not if he expects to preserve the peace in the apartment. So, he turns over in his head all the possible scenarios he could recount to his mother to tell the story of why he and the love of his life (because obviously he’d told her that’s exactly what Ben was) broke up, and how he might then go about comforting her in that respect. She’d become quite invested in the lie, which Hux had embellished over the last six months rather than refute; there is an entire litany of fabricated dates, a terribly sappy admission of love, stories of visits to Ben’s family in New York which had never taken place, and a vastly over-detailed account of Ben’s awfully romantic proposal.

_How the hell is he ever going to get out of this mess?_

_Does he even want to?_

Hux pulls the blankets over his head, trying to shut out the proximity to Ben and the temptation to lay this all on the table. What would he even say to him? Wouldn’t Ben simply think he was mad, or desperate, or _worse_ , actually in love with him? Secretly pining? Which is worse: admitting to the morass his lie has landed him in with his family (for of course his mother had told everyone Hux had ever known in Tully and some people he hadn’t) or asking Ben to go with him to Georgia and pretend to be his mythical fiancé (and oh, by the way, please also ignore any implications of that, Ben)? Of course, he could just tell his mother that Ben couldn’t get the time off work, or had a family emergency, or…something. But Hux could just _see_ her face, wearing that same look of disapproval Brendol had so often adopted for his son, who never did things in the right order

With a grunt of frustration, Hux flings the covers back and sits up, feet dropping to the floor. Standing, he crosses to his bedroom door and hovers there, hand on the doorknob, heart thundering in his ears. Before he can talk himself out of it, he lets himself out into the hallway. 

Ben’s door is open, and Hux wonders briefly if that is auspicious. It’s only a few steps before he’s standing at the threshold, eyes squinted as they adjust to the light. Ben is lying on his stomach, propped on his elbows on the bed with a laptop open before him. The screen is filled with words, too small for Hux to distinguish what they are, but it seems to be something Ben doesn’t want him to see, because his roommate clicks the laptop shut. Are his cheeks pink? Hux is partly blind at the moment and isn’t sure.

“Hey,” Ben says, sitting up, cross-legged. “You okay?” His dark hair is mussed, straggling from its black tie and framing his face in a way Hux has always thought is nice.

Hux sucks in a deep breath. “I told my parents we’re engaged.”

 _There._ _It’s out there._ He braces himself against the door frame with one hand, shifting a foot back into the hallway as though he can flee more quickly that way.

Ben just looks at him, lips parted for a long second before he croaks: “You...what?”

Hux’s damnably pale skin blotches. He rubs at his nose, which suddenly itches where capillaries are expanding with embarrassment.

“Just what I said,” Hux reiterates. “The last fight with my dad, he kept telling me I needed to get a girlfriend and have grandkids and I just…snapped. I showed him your picture and said you’re my fiancé.”

Ben stares at him. His eyes, which Hux knows to be hazel, are impossibly black. His cheeks are definitely pink now.

“I mean,” Hux rattles on, “I didn’t have any other pictures of men on my phone, is why. Why you, that is. I just wanted to get him off my back.”

Their eyes had been locked up until this moment, when Ben breaks his gaze, looking at his window. Hux cannot read his expression, and has to tuck his hands beneath his arms because they won’t stop shaking.

“Right,” Ben says, turning back to him. “Glad to be of service?” His tone is dubious, one eyebrow raised. He too, crosses his arms.

Hux feels like he’s drowning in the deep end of a murky pool, and suddenly wishes he’d put more thought into this conversation. Made some notes. A Powerpoint. Anything. His face is hot, eyes watering with mortification.

“It’s just that, I mean my mother overheard it all. She was in the kitchen that night. I intended to tell her I’d made it up but…um. I forgot. And now she’s…she really wants me to bring you. To the wake.”

Ben is silent for a long moment, and Hux braces himself for more questions, for rejection, for some scathing comment on how shabbily Hux had used him.

Instead, Ben says only, “Okay.” Two soft syllables.

Hux’s mouth falls open. “Okay?”

Uncrossing his arms, Ben shrugs, looks down at his hands in his lap. He picks at a fingernail and murmurs, “Yeah. Like I said, anything you need.”

Hux is awash suddenly with incredible relief and shame in equal measures, forming an unpleasant crowd with embarrassment. “Are you…sure? It’ll be a few days. Can you even take the time off work? I don’t want you to use up too many of your vacation hours. And my family can be…difficult.”

Ben looks up again. “I’ll worry about what I use my vacation time for.” His tone is almost sharp, and Hux flinches. His next words are gentler. “And I’m no stranger to difficult families.”

Hux stares at him for a long moment. He looks so much younger than his twenty-nine years, despite the scar that runs from above one eye to the curve of his jaw. Perhaps it’s the oversized _US Marines_ hoodie, the careless hair, or the way he’s pulling at a string on the cuff of the shirt that makes him seem vulnerable. Either way, Hux feels like he’s doing something wrong, and that he should get out while he still can.

And yet.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you...I know this is…really stupid. If I was in my right mind I probably would never have brought it up, but I really don’t want to add anything to what my mother is going through right now, or have to explain to…”

“Hux,” Ben interrupts. “It’s all right. Just go to bed. Get some rest. It’ll be fine.”

Hux isn’t sure he believes him. At the very least, sometime over the next twenty-four hours, Hux is going to have to come somewhat clean about the fact that he very much did _not_ forget to tell his mother about the fake dissolution of his fake engagement. There are inumerable details of Hux’s elaborate fantasy he’ll have to find some way to school Ben in, all while hopefully avoiding a full admission of just how much thought he’d put into it all.

“Right,” Hux mutters, blushing anew. “We can talk about it tomorrow.” He turns to go, then stops, facing Ben again. “Thank you,” he adds softly.

Ben nods, offers him a wan smile. “Like I said, Hux.”

 _Anything you need._ The words echo in Hux’s memory with a heavy thrum in his chest. Had anyone ever said something like that to him? He thinks that Ben might actually mean it, and suddenly Hux’s earlier declaration resounds with an ugly knell in his head. _“I didn’t have any other pictures of men on my phone is why. Why you, that is.”_ What total bullshit.

Hux thinks of trying to retract that, standing in Ben’s doorway, but decides there isn’t any way to do so without it being colossally awkward - as though the level of inelegance ascribed to this situation could possibly intensify. And so he simply nods again, too fraught with confusion to speak, and retreats to his room.

He lays awake the rest of the night, his only comfort in recalling each and every detail that he had shared with his mother, and allowing himself to imagine what it would really be like to be engaged to Ben Solo.


	2. Awkward Garden Statues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (some minor chapter tags include allusion to PTSD and mention of anxiety, as well as anxiety medication)

It’s merely a testament to nine years in the military that Ben is able to sleep at all after Hux’s outlandish confession. That aside, he is still staring out the window when the sun comes up, and force of will alone allows him to drop into an offline state until 0700. 

His alarm going off startles him badly, as he’s used to rising a few minutes before it sounds every morning. Today, however, he’s completely disoriented and the shrill static of the untuned AM/FM setting blasts through his hibernation state like a shortwave radio squawking. Ben snaps to full consciousness abruptly, and the alarm clock is wrenched off the desk and tumbles onto his lap as he sits up, fumbling for the relay button. 

It takes perhaps three full seconds for Ben to realize where he is and for him to understand that the “radio signal” has shut off because he’s pulled the cord out of the wall. Dragging a shaking hand through his hair, Ben reflects that three seconds is better than it’s been in not-so-distant memory. It’s progress, he guesses, even if existing with one foot in the past feels feels like it might someday tear him in half. 

He dumps the clock back on the table, not bothering to plug it back in. He blinks in the obnoxiously bright summer sunlight filtering through the blinds, and scrubs at his right eye. His vision is always worse right after he wakes up, and it pisses him off, because it reminds him of the reason he’s trapped in this boot-sucking civilian bog instead of in the field where he belongs. 

Throwing back the sheets, he slips out of bed, groggier than normal. It had probably been foolish of him to disrupt his sleep routine, which is the only way he avoids medication, but he’d wanted to be awake in case Hux decided he needed to talk the night before. 

The direction that conversation had taken was the farthest from what Ben could have imagined, so much so that he actually stares at his bedroom door for a moment, trying to picture Hux there with his disheveled red hair and his faded Nintendo t-shirt. Panicked green eyes. The vision is too clear to have been a dream.

Hux’s words about Ben just having been the first convenient picture on his phone chafe, though he doesn’t want to think overmuch on that. He just wants to get out of bed, get a shower, and soldier through this day.

He usually doesn’t find simple acts like picking out clothes for the day to be complex, and yet he finds himself sorting through his drawer of don’t-have-to-work-today t-shirts and discarding them. Afterward he becomes mired in the selection of button-downs and Polos that he wears to the office. Does he dress up to meet Hux’s parents? Correction, his mother. And who else? Hux never talks about his family, which Ben thinks may be at least partly because Ben never talks about his own background. It seems to have become, over the last two years, a tacitly taboo subject. 

He’s still standing in his closet when it occurs to him that everything about this situation makes him uncomfortable. He’d been too surprised last night to react at Hux’s assumption that he would be on board with pretending to be engaged to a man. While Ben would classify them as friends, surely, Ben has never been forthcoming about his dating history. Honestly, there isn’t much to it. He’d left home and conned himself into the military at seventeen, and his only real relationship had been some on and off thing with a family friend.

It hadn’t gone anywhere, inevitably, because they were both career military. Ben knows for a fact that he’s never mentioned Poe, because just saying his name makes his chest hurt. All the pictures of them are hidden in the .30 caliber ammo case in the top of his closet, along with cards and letters from his parents that he’d never answered, his grandfather’s medals, and his discharge papers. 

Ben tries to think if he’s been casual in some other way about his sexuality, or obvious about it. Hux had always been starkly open about it, to the point of commenting on who he finds attractive on television, but that isn’t Ben’s style. It isn’t that he is ashamed of it, or that it’s a secret, it’s just that Hux had never  _ asked _ . Nothing pisses Ben off more than for someone to make assumptions about him. 

What is he supposed to do in Georgia, with Hux’s family? How the hell is he supposed to pretend to be engaged to someone he’s never even kissed, and make it believable? What had compelled him to say yes?

Ben heaves a sigh and tells himself it’s just the anxiety that always trips him up whenever things get too personal. He’s had to drag himself to enough therapy sessions to recognize that he has a pervasive fear of failure, and of being insufficient. That’s only gotten worse since losing the sense of purpose that the Raiders - Marine special ops - had given him. 

That thought prompts him into a decision on his attire for the day, and he pulls down a solid blue dress shirt and a pair of black slacks. His confidence is tenuous, most days, and every bit of armor helps. 

He gathers the rest of what he needs for his shower, and walks out into the hall. Hux is awake, perched at the island that serves as their kitchen table. Laptop open in front of him, Hux is talking into his cell phone, and scrolling, and glances at Ben distractedly, holding up a finger as though to ask Ben to wait. 

Leaning against the bathroom door frame, Ben studies his roommate. Hux doesn’t look like he slept the night before either, for the skin beneath his eyes is smudged with pale purple, making him look almost gaunt. Nevertheless, he is immaculately groomed with a crisp light green shirt tucked into khaki slacks, polished brown leather shoes, hair tamed into perfection. Ben surmises he’s talking to someone in his family, catching snippets such as  _ how many days are you staying  _ and  _ obviously I’m not bringing food _ .

Finally, Hux hangs up with a sigh and looks at Ben. “I can’t believe this shit,” he snaps, pointing at the computer screen. “There’re tickets for a flight at 12:30, but it has two fucking connections that make no goddamned sense. Why do we need to go from here to Utah to get to Atlanta? It’s the only thing I can find though so that’s what we have to do. Nine hours! I think we could get there faster on horseback. Are you packed?”

Ben raises an eyebrow when Hux stops speaking. “Good morning to you, too.” 

Hux’s eyes widen slightly, and his nose turns faintly pink. “Good morning. Sorry.” He makes to shift partly off the bar stool. “Do you want some breakfast? I walked down to Drogor’s and got some bagels just after they opened this morning.”

That is, Ben knows from long practice, at five AM, which implies that Hux had likely slept as little as Ben had. He thinks of refusing at first, but then reminds himself that low blood sugar makes him snappy, and today isn’t a good day for that. 

He shrugs a confirmation and strolls over to the empty stool beside Hux. His roommate grabs a brown bag from the counter and pulls a bagel out, and then a plate, which Ben finds unnecessary but doesn’t argue. Unpeeling the white wax paper, Ben finds it’s his favorite kind - honey grain with plain cream cheese. Why this touches him, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s because no one else on Earth knows what kind of bagels he likes. 

Hux settles beside him with his wheat and strawberry cream cheese, and gives him a sheepish look. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” Ben lies. “You?” 

“Not really,” Hux admits. “Listen, Ben… It’s not too late to decide you don’t want to do this. I won’t be upset with you at all.” 

Ben feels Hux looking at him, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “It’s fine,” he says shortly.

Hux sets his bagel down. “Are you sure? I mean…” 

Ben interrupts him. “When I say I’ll do something, I do it, Hux.” He realizes immediately it’s come across snappish, so he offers Hux a smile he means to be encouraging. “I want to help.”

Hux regards him like a prey animal taking account of a potential predator, but then his expression blanks, and he nods. “Thank you,” he says.

They eat in relative silence for a moment, the only sound being the  _ scrape - clink  _ of Hux’s fork and knife against his plate as he cuts his bagel into manageable bites. Ben finds himself thinking of the first time he’d seen Hux do this—eat a bagel like it’s a fine-dining food—and he smiles.

“So, how did I ask you to marry me?” He glances sidelong at Hux. “Or did you ask me?”

Hux abruptly chokes on his bagel and gropes for the bottle of water beside his computer. By the time he’s taken a long drink, Hux’s face is fully red. His eyes flick to Ben. “Um. You asked me.”

Ben chews on the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. “How?” 

Hux saws a piece off his bagel, forcefully. “You um…did the whole one knee thing, in Union Station. Said some fluffy shit. I said yes, etcetera etcetera.” 

There’s something over the top and maudlin about that vision that Ben finds strangely appealing -like if he was going to ask someone to marry him, he’d want to do so where people would share it. 

“That was romantic of me,” he teases Hux, who makes a face Ben can’t interpret. “How long were we dating first?”

Hux glances at him, though not fully. “It was kind of love at first sight, don’t you think?” He catches Ben’s eye for a long second, and offers him a small smile that doesn’t manage to quite diminish his evident apprehension. 

Ben doesn’t mean to return the look for as long as he does without speaking, and Hux’s brows finally knit. “I mean, either that or it was kind of a whirlwind thing. Like, we were roommates for a while and then…”

“No,” Ben interjects. “I think it was love at first sight. For sure.” 

Hux’s eyes dart over Ben’s face, perhaps looking for some tell-tale sign of his disposition. When he returns to his breakfast, Hux is smiling. “So, I suppose you ought to know a few more things about me, just in case. The small details.”

Ben props his elbow on the bar and borrows Hux’s water bottle, taking a sip. “Such as, the scar on your arm is from falling off your bike when you were twelve. You can’t stand grapefruit. You need white noise to sleep and can’t sleep if your door is open because it makes you anxious. Favorite game is chess, favorite book is  _ All Quiet on the Western Front _ and it makes you cry but I’m never allowed to tell anyone that…”

“Ben!” Hux bursts out laughing. “Okay, damn, do I really talk about myself that much?” His eyes are glittering.

Ben grins and shrugs, pleased with himself. “No. I just pay attention.” 

Hux holds his gaze for a few moments, a pink flush highlighting high cheekbones. “I guess so,” he says at last. He seems about to say something else, but then turns abruptly back to his half-eaten bagel. 

Ben watches him out of the corner of his eye as they finish their breakfast, not failing to notice how Hux firmly neglects to look at him now. Part of him wonders exactly what Hux is embarrassed about - the entire situation, or just that he’s managed to entangle Ben, who wouldn’t, apparently, have been his first choice of the person to take home to his family, in it. He tries to think of something else to ask Hux about it, to gauge how elaborate this ruse either is or needs to be, but he finishes his bagel without thinking of anything that doesn’t sound wistful in his own mind. 

He’s crumpling the paper bag their breakfast had come in when Hux finally glances at him again with eyebrows drawn together. He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it again and looks back down at the fork resting on his plate. His normally perfect posture is slumped, shoulders round, and Ben can all but see the weight bearing down on him. Ben understands grief, and more than that, he understands not being able to allow oneself to feel it because there are duties to perform and days to get through.

It’s a natural gesture that Ben reaches out and touches him, just grazing one shoulder. Hux flinches hard, and Ben pulls his hand back a few inches. A brief flurry of negative feelings makes Ben’s jaw clench, mixed with a few words like  _ ungrateful  _ and  _ you disgust him _ , but he pushes that aside with a measure of stubborn indignance. 

“You know, if you flinch like that when I touch you, we’ll never convince anyone we’re engaged. Or at least not happy about it.” 

Hux looks at him again. “I won’t flinch. You just surprised me.” His words are more clipped than necessary, but with what emotion Ben doesn’t know. 

Ignoring it, Ben takes a step closer and rests his hand on Hux’s shoulder again. “Yeah?” he murmurs, half-teasing and half-bitter. He wants to see Hux not flinch when he touches him, he wants Hux to convince him that he’s not just a convenient proxy. Even if that’s the truth.

The hand on Hux’s shoulder glides along the muscle, tracing the delicate slope. Then Ben curls his fingers in, brushing the backs of his knuckles up along the pale, graceful neck until he grazes an earlobe. All the while, Hux doesn’t move, every muscle frozen, statuesque. Finally, Ben opens his hand, two fingers stretched along the strong line of Hux’s clean-shaven jaw, and he bends down to lay his cheek against soft red hair so that his next words are a breath against Hux’s ear. 

“You’re trembling.” 

Hux’s hand jerks, his silverware clattering off his plate. The knife drops to the carpeted floor with a muffled  _ thump _ . 

Ben breaks the contact, leaning down to retrieve the knife and set it on the counter. Hux is staring at him. “I guess we need to practice,” Ben remarks, smirking. “Wanna take a shower with me?”

Hux’s mouth falls open. “Are you…” He breaks off when Ben starts laughing, and aims a punch at Ben’s arm, easily dodged. “Go get ready,” Hux snaps, though without any vehemence. “We have a plane to catch.”

 

* * *

 

Ben shoves their second carry- on into the overhead compartment of Delta Air flight 2431, and marvels again at the number of bags Hux somehow managed to pack. Used to traveling light and having his needs provided for by the military, Ben has only a carry- on and his suit. 

“Don’t put that on top of the garment bag!” Hux reaches around Ben into the compartment and and adjusts the blue plastic bag, carefully folding it over atop the other items while Ben gives him a cross look. Grateful to finally be on the plane, Ben sinks down into his seat and exhales. The past few hours have been a whirlwind of packing, rushing to the airport, getting through security, Hux losing his boarding pass, and having their gate changed twice. The flight is currently delayed by fifteen minutes, a fact which Hux is inordinately put out over. 

“We’re just going to have to rent a car,” Hux says for the third time. “It’ll be too late for my mother to be picking us up.” He frowns at Ben. “Can I have the window seat?” 

Ben growls softly, but gets up and shifts to the middle chair. Hux wedges his frame through the ridiculously narrow space between Ben’s knees and the aisle in front of them, and buckles himself in. He immediately leans over Ben’s legs to check on Millicent, who is tucked into a TSA approved pet carrier beneath the seat in front of Ben. Her ears are turned backward, eyes saucer-large. Ben feels sorry for her.

“Shit, I forgot her treats in my bag. Can you get them?” Hux gives him a look that isn’t far removed from the one Millicent is wearing. 

Ben rolls his eyes and levers himself up. “Which pocket?” 

“Top exterior.” 

He finds the bag, tosses it at Hux. “You’re demanding,” he grunts. “Are you going to be like this when we’re married?”

Hux peels the cat treats open, giving Ben a look that can only be described as coy. “Worse.”

“Why do I not doubt that?” He waits for Hux to press a few of the brown pellets through an opening in the carrier, then sits down again. There’s no room for him to even remotely stretch his legs out with Millicent stowed where she is. “Why don’t you move her over in front of you?”

“I can reach her better this way,” Hux says, giving Ben a look that suggests that Ben should have surmised that. 

Ben sighs, again, and leans back with a tattered copy of  _ SkyMall _ , thumbing through it as the cabin crew begin their monotonous spiel about what could happen in the unlikely event of a water landing. He doesn’t fail to notice the slight vibration in the pages, stemming from the tremor in his hands. Ben hadn’t expected this reaction to flying, and it upsets him that this psychological malaise has been lurking in his subconscious since coming home from Afghanistan three years ago. 

Hux has finally settled as well, and is playing a game on his phone. When  _ SkyMall  _ fails to hold Ben’s interest, he leans back in his seat and watches Hux move tiny pieces of candy around on the screen.

“Candy Crush?” Ben teases. “Really?”

Hux raises an eyebrow, nonplussed. “It’s a puzzle.”

Ben snorts. 

“What?” Hux brandishes the phone at him. “Some of the levels are really hard. You have to be clever and think ahead.”

The seatbelt light pings, and a flight attendant passes them, checking the floor and the seat backs. She smiles at Ben. It doesn’t occur to him to smile back until she’s already turned away and moved down the aisle. The engines spin up, a deep rumble beneath them, and then the aircraft begins to back away from the terminal. Ben does his best to focus on the game Hux is playing until the plane begins to accelerate down the runway. The g-force hits him and turns his stomach, and Ben grips the armrests, eyes closed, struggling with a breathing exercise. He cannot escape the graphic sensation of plummeting to the earth, the sound of the turbo engines becoming a screaming roar in his head, smelling smoke and hearing screaming, and…

“Ben?” Hux’s voice is soft, concerned, and Ben opens his eyes and looks at him. He cannot manage words to go with the glance, and suddenly wonders what picture he must be painting at the moment. He feels the plane launch itself off the tarmac, sees the ground begin to drop away beyond the window. 

Hux is prying Ben’s fingers off the armrest, turning Ben’s palm over and twining their hands together. It brings Ben back to himself, forcing him to think about not breaking the bones in Hux’s hand by squeezing it too tightly, and he slowly lets the air out of his lungs through his nose.

“You said we should practice,” Hux says with a smile. It takes a few seconds for Ben’s addled consciousness to understand what he means, but then he’s grateful that Hux is clearly choosing not to make a thing of Ben’s discomfiture. 

Ben doesn’t let go until the ground is fully obscured by cloud cover and the beverage cart begins to move in their direction. Slowly beginning to feel as though the plane is not about to lurch sharply down and plunge to the ground, he adjusts in his seat, relieving tense muscles. They have to do this all over two more times—once in Denver and once in Salt Lake City—before they make it to Atlanta. The idea is appalling, and as Ben glances at Hux and finds him pretending not to watch him, he decides he’d rather Hux know the truth than assume he has some baseless fear. 

“I suppose someone will probably ask you where I got this scar,” he says, too quietly for anyone else to hear. 

Hux turns from where he’s taken an interest in the endless field of homogeneous clouds. “I’ll tell them it’s none of their business.” 

Ben’s lips twitch. “There’s no telling what they’d imagine if you said that. Worse than the reality, I’m sure.” He pauses long enough to order a Mountain Dew from the flight attendant, flicking his tray table down. When she’s gone, he continues. 

“It was in Afghanistan. The Seahawk - the helicopter I was on, took a SAM…um…surface to air missile…” Ben takes a drink from his diminutive plastic cup, flexing the fingers of his left hand in an attempt to expel nervous energy. Hux is gazing at him with a forehead creased softly with concern. “Luckily the pilot banked at the last second, and it didn’t hit us full on, but we still crashed. There were eight of us in the ‘hawk, and only two made it out. But…I took a face full of metal, lost thirty percent vision in my right eye, broken bones. After that, they washed me out. Said I couldn’t hack it anymore. Gave me the option to ride a desk, but…” Ben offers Hux a self-deprecating smile. “Not my style, really.”

Hux frowns. “I don’t think I’d care for flying either, after that.”

It isn’t the response Ben expected. He’s avoided telling people what happened to him after the first few months of being a civilian because it nearly always invited pity, which Ben had no time for. “This is the first time I’ve been in the air since coming home.”

Hux is silent for a span of seconds, and then picks up Ben’s hand again, lacing their fingers together. Ben almost shakes him off, but Hux adds: “Thank you for doing this for me. Being alone with my family would have been really…hard.” He settles Ben’s hand over his lap, and Hux’s mouth is set in a defiant way that seems to dare Ben to try to pull away.

“So,” Ben says, leaning his head back against the seat and letting Hux keep his hand. “What made you think I’d ever be engaged to a man?” 

Hux’s head snaps around, green eyes wide and pale. His fingers twitch around Ben’s, going almost slack. “You...I thought...oh my god.”

Ben squeezes Hux’s hand. “No, I really want to know. What gave me away?” 

The tension ebbs out of Hux visibly, though his expression is still apprehensive. “I mean, when we’ve gone out, it’s like you never notice the women that always flirt with you. And...you only look at the men.”

Ben cycles through a few recent memories, and finds he can’t remember any women flirting with him. Perhaps that in itself lends credence to Hux’s observation. 

“Am I wrong?” Hux ventures carefully.

“No.” Ben impulsively brushes his thumb across Hux’s hand, a soothing gesture that seems to instantly take on more context. Hux flushes slightly, and Ben feels his own face heat up.

“So,” he changes the subject. “Maybe you should find out what else you don’t know about me. And maybe we should get our story straight?” 

They talk for the rest of the flight, with Ben finding out that Hux seems to have been paying just as much attention to him as he has Hux, though gleaning anything from Ben’s well-honed reticence is a particularly impressive skill. Hux has surmised (from Ben’s wardrobe) that his favorite color is black, that his favorite book is  _ Dune _ (which is lovingly worn and has duct-tape on the cover), and that he listens to Radiohead when he’s depressed. Ben finds it funny that it seems like they’ve been getting to know each other covertly, when they’ve lived together for two years and could simply have asked these things. 

They are still talking during their layover in Denver, where they get a late lunch at an overpriced pub. The atmosphere makes Hux reminiscent, and he tells Ben a story about getting drunk with his dad when he was in high school, and how much trouble they’d both been in from his mother the next morning. Ben, in turn, tells him about the time he’d stolen his father’s car, barely old enough to reach the pedals, and driven it to get ice-cream. He, too, had been in a significant amount of trouble. 

Hux doesn’t bring up the details of the helicopter crash that had robbed Ben of his career, and doesn’t mention Ben’s dread of being in the air. Instead, on their remaining two flights, Hux takes Ben’s hand without a word. 

They land in Atlanta at 2130, local time, and Hux indeed follows through with renting a car. It’s a forty-five minute drive to Hux’s hometown, which is a little place Ben’s never heard of called Tully, population 1,003. The sign that announces this has, Ben notices, three bullet holes in it. 

Hux hasn’t said much for most of the drive, staring out the window. He’d let Ben take the wheel, and spoke only to tell him what exits to take, where to turn, and to point out the odd landmark. The town is small, with one main thoroughfare, brick storefronts in a mishmash of shapes and sizes, sidewalks with grass springing through the cracks, and most of the streetlights are out. They pass through town without coming across a single soul, and it’s so different from growing up in New York City that Ben finds it positively eerie. 

Hux’s family home is on the outskirts of Tully, with a long, unpaved driveway flanked by massive oaks, rife with Spanish moss, that Ben guesses could have been around during the Civil War. The house itself is obscured by the gloom of night, but Ben can make out enough to tell that it’s massive. Far larger than he’d expected, although what exactly he’d thought it would be like, he can’t say.

“You’ll have to see it in the morning,” Hux says as Ben pulls the car to a stop alongside a dark sedan. “It’s maybe the only thing pretty in this town.” His tone is bitter, and Ben glances at him. Hux is staring out the windshield at the house, arms folded. 

Ben lets the silence linger for a moment. “You going to be okay?” 

“I’m going to have to be,” Hux responds, sighing. Before Ben can offer any more encouragement, he’s unfastened the seatbelt and opened the door. 

Ben ends up with most of the bags, so Hux can carry Millicent, and they are just stepping up onto the wrap-around porch when the front door opens, spilling warm yellow light across them. Ben blinks, eyes adjusting slowly as a figure materializes from shadow to person, taking on features that are unmistakably related to Hux. She’s tall for a woman, and has the same willowy build and artful cheekbones. Her hair is darker, pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. 

“Hi, Mum.” Hux lets go of his carry-on luggage, and wraps that arm around his mother. It jostles Millicent, who mewls. 

She clings to Hux, patting his back with slender hands that remind Ben of Hux’s. “Hi, baby. I see you brought my granddaughter.” Pulling back, she leans down and coos at Millicent through the carrier, then turns her attention on Ben. 

“This is...” Hux begins, but is startled into silence when his mother steps past him and wraps her arms around Ben’s neck. 

Ben isn’t ready for it, and tilts forward with her sudden, slight weight, and has to drop both bags he’s holding to balance himself and return the embrace. It occurs to him suddenly that he hasn’t hugged anyone in…years. His palms are moist with sweat. 

“Hi, Ben,” Aislain Hux says, squeezing him quite tightly for a woman her size. She steps back, hands on Ben’s arms, appraising him in the porchlight. “Aren’t you just a handsome thing?” 

Ben’s immediate thought is that she’s just being nice, but it’s impossible to read her face in the half-gloom. “Hello, Mrs. Hux,” he stammers, feeling rather awkward. 

She lets go of his arms with a bark of laughter. “None of that. Call me ‘Mom.’” She reaches down and picks up one of the bags Ben had dropped. Before Ben can object, or respond at all, she’s moving into the house with the suitcase. “Come in, come in. You boys must be exhausted. I have your room ready, Armie. Clean sheets and all aired out.” 

Ben moves to follow her, and as he passes Hux, hears him mutter: “Don’t you dare call me Armie, Ben.” It makes Ben smile.

The house seems even larger on the inside, with gleaming polished wood floors that reflect the overhead light. They are in a parlor, beige curtains drawn over floor-to-ceiling windows, and a thick red and black patterned rug that might actually be the largest Ben has ever seen. The furniture looks antique, mismatched in color but still managing to seem as though it belongs together. 

Hux toes the door closed behind them, and his mother leads the way through to the next room, which seems to be an additional den of some kind, complete with a native stone fireplace. There’s a huge portrait above it that must be Hux’s family, years in the past, and Ben imagines the rather surly looking man with a bushy red beard is Hux’s father. 

Aislain insists on helping them carry their belongings up the wide staircase, asking questions the entire time.  _ How was the flight? Did you have dinner? Have you talked to your brother, Armie? Do you think you’ll need more pillows than this?  _

They get somewhat settled, and then Hux’s mother suggests a cup of tea before bed. 

The kitchen is twice the size of the strip of counter space he and Hux have at home, and it reminds Ben a little bit of his family house, and of his mother cooking Thanksgiving dinner. She’d done that once, though it had ended up a disaster. His dad had come late, and Leia burned the turkey while they were arguing. Ben had eaten a whole pumpkin pie by himself because he was upset, and had then gotten sick. 

The walls here seem to have absorbed happy memories, though, allowing Ben to easily imagine the Hux clan laughing and celebrating some holiday or another. Or perhaps that is just wishful thinking, on Ben’s part.

Aislain puts the kettle on, and Ben leans against the counter. He’s disinclined to sit, as that is what he’s been doing for the last ten hours. Hux notices, hesitates for a brief moment, and then shuffles close to him, mimicking Ben’s posture. Only a few scant inches separate them, and abruptly Ben realizes that the show is on. The curtain is up. He’s supposed to be Hux’s fiancé, his lover, and he has no idea what to do. Aislain’s back is turned, luckily, as she gets tea from the cabinet, and Hux rescues Ben by nudging Ben’s arm and leaning into his side. Hux’s own arm snakes around his waist, hand fluttering along Ben’s side before he finds a good place to rest it. Ben does likewise, finally settling on a spot between Hux’s shoulderblades. Ben’s heart is beating loudly enough that he’s sure Hux’s mother can hear it, and their ruse will be up.

“Do you take milk, Ben?” she asks, turning to look over her shoulder. She doesn’t seem to take any particular notice of the fact that he and Hux are standing like awkward garden statues in the middle of her kitchen. 

“Um…yeah, milk is good.” He doesn’t have the slightest clue about tea, which he doesn’t drink.

“And sugar,” Hux adds. “He’s addicted to it.” 

Ben glances down at him, but Hux just leans his head against Ben’s shoulder. He seems to be less anxious about this farce than Ben is, to the point that he’s almost relaxed against Ben’s side.

“Well of course,” Aislain says as the tea kettle whistles. She takes it off the stove. “You did say he wants three kinds of cake at the wedding.”

Hux flinches at that, clearing his throat before Ben can respond. “Do you need some help, Mum?”

Aislain has mugs on the counter now, pouring the tea. “No, no, you’ve been busy enough for a day.” She turns, handing Ben a cup, then Hux. Hux peels himself away from Ben to accept the drink, though he doesn’t move far. All this seems utterly unreal, an out-of-body experience. 

Ben doesn’t fully process much of the ensuing conversation, nor is he really sure what he’s saying. It must be appropriate, however, because Hux’s mother is smiling as she sips her tea, and doesn’t appear to be overly-scrutinizing them. Ben doesn’t, in fact, have a lot of opportunity to speak, as his faux fiancé wrenches the dialogue away in a masterful feat of redirection any time something regarding their status as a couple surfaces. 

Earlier that morning, Ben might have assumed Hux is avoiding the subject because the idea of being engaged to Ben embarrasses him, but Hux’s body language does not reflect that. For the hour they stand in the kitchen and talk, Hux manages to touch him in some way the entire time: thighs pressed together, cheek on Ben’s shoulder, hand tucked in the crook of Ben’s arm. As time passes, Ben relaxes by measures, until the feigned intimacy starts to seem almost natural. 

By the time Aislain suggests they turn in for the night, Ben is exhausted, and he’s grateful when Hux leads the way upstairs. There’s a promise of an early breakfast, and the impending arrival of Hux’s younger brother and his wife. Aislain leaves them at the door to Hux’s—their—room, and that’s when another reality begins to sink in. 

Of course there’s only one bed.

Ben might have been able to just shrug that off, but not with his nightmares and his disorientation. The idea of Hux seeing that bothers him so much that he doesn’t move from the doorway for such a length of time that Hux takes notice. 

“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Don’t tell me the old man is haunting us already.” Hux’s voice cracks in thin laughter at his poor attempt at humor, the matter rather too soon to joke about. It does serve the purpose of snapping Ben out of his trance of indecision. 

“Fine,” he says, moving into the room fully and closing the door. Then he opens it again a crack, so Millicent can get in. She’d disappeared the minute Hux set her free.

Hux eyes Ben, fingers tugging at his own travel-rumpled dress shirt, freeing it from his belt. He turns to go into the bathroom, unbuttoning it as he goes. “What do you think of my mother?” 

Ben thinks that is a strange question. “You told her I want three kinds of cake at our wedding?” He walks over to his suitcase, opening it and sorting through for something to wear to bed. 

Hux laughs, and it has that strained high-pitched tone that’s been prevalent for the last couple of days. “I just made that up.” 

“Obviously,” Ben snorts, unbuttoning his own shirt and exchanging it for a tee. 

“My mother likes details, just like me.” 

Ben changes into athletic shorts. “And you told her all this when?” He turns to see Hux hovering in the bathroom door, brushing his teeth and watching Ben. 

Abruptly turning back to the sink, Hux lifts one shoulder and lets it fall. “I don’t remember.”

The sullen tone, and the weird way Hux wouldn’t let him answer his mother’s questions in the kitchen is leading Ben to suspect that there is more to this satire than Hux would have him believe. But he lets it go for the moment in favor of brushing his teeth, exchanging places with Hux in the bathroom. 

When Ben emerges again, Hux is on the bed, blankets pulled down around his bare feet, having changed into checkered pajama pants and a blue tank top. Ben’s eyes are drawn to the narrow, freckled shoulders which shift as Hux rubs lotion into his hands. The styling product has been brushed out of his hair so that it falls around his face, taking years from his appearance. Everything about him looks soft, and warm. 

Ben walks to the bed and snatches a pillow off, then drags the top blanket off while Hux looks at him curiously. When Ben drops the pillow onto the floor beside the bed, Hux’s brows shoot down. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Sleeping on the floor.” Ben sits down with a grunt, stretching out on his back, arranging the blanket over himself. 

Hux’s head appears over the edge of the bed. “You’re not serious. Get in the bed and don’t be ridiculous.”

Ben peers up at him, then rolls over. “I’m fine. I’ve slept standing up before in the Marines.”

Hux snorts. “Well, this is Georgia, and you’re not in the Marines, and we don’t sleep on the floor here. What if my mother walked in? We’d have to say we got in a fight.” 

Ben turns to glance at him over his shoulder. “Go to sleep, Hux.”

When Hux disappears back onto the bed, Ben thinks the issue is solved, and he nestles back into his pillow. He’s tired enough that he starts to drift off in seconds, even with the light still shining overhead. 

Then something hits the ground beside him. Opening his eyes, he sees another pillow, and then Hux sits down, spreading a quilt over himself. He’s wearing a fierce expression.

“Hux…” Ben can’t help laughter. “What the hell?” 

Hux lays down facing him and glares. “Two can play this game, Ben Solo.” 

“Oh, my god. Get back in bed and stop it. I’m fine on the floor.” 

“So am I.” Hux turns over, showing Ben his back, and tugs the quilt up over his shoulder. 

Ben lays there for a moment, frustrated and amused at once, and finally sighs, sitting up. “All right. You win.” He picks himself up from the floor and throws the pillow back on the bed. He leaves Hux to settle back on the bed, and goes into the bathroom again. Anxiety stirs in his chest, making his skin feel cold, and he shuts the door with numb fingers. 

He rifles through his bag of toiletries until he finds an orange and white bottle, turning it in his hands to glance at the label.  _ Alprazolam. 1mg.  _  It’s been nearly eight months since he needed this, and part of him hoped he never would again. Then he imagines waking up in an unfamiliar place, in the dark, with another body beside him, and he twists open the cap and takes one. 

Hux is back in the bed when Ben comes out, and is thankfully managing not to look smug about his victory as he looks at his phone. He’s rearranged the blankets into their previous order, and even turned down Ben’s side. Sliding in, Ben lies back and wonders why in God’s name he’d ever agreed to this. Not thinking things through, clearly. Rolling onto his side, back to Hux, he shuts his eyes and waits for sleep. 

A moment later, Ben hears the light click off, and the room beyond his eyelids goes dark. He’s starkly aware of every minute shift as Hux lays down beside him. The bed is a full, and neither of them are small people, and so when the bed dips with Hux’s weight, Ben feels his own body shift back. He tenses, shuffles over toward the edge. When Hux’s hand brushes Ben’s shoulder, he jumps.

Hux pulls his hand away. “Thank you, Ben,” he whispers.

Ben nods, then realizes that Hux can’t see him. “It’s okay, Hux. Goodnight.” 

There is a long, weighted silence, and then Hux murmurs, “Goodnight.” 

Ben lies there for a long while, senses preternaturally attuned, knowing that he’s hovering on a precipice of unconsciousness. His medication tends to take hold of him without announcement, which is another thing Ben hates about it. 

At last, Hux’s breathing slows, and Ben rolls over, having always preferred sleeping on his left side. Hux, in fact, is on the side of the bed that Ben religiously occupies, which further throws him off. 

A window lets in enough light that Ben can make out Hux’s features, even if the shadows have leached out his vibrant color. He’s surprised to discover a longing to reach out and touch him, to brush a thumb over his lips, comb back his hair. Pull him close and hold him, because Ben knows that despite the fact that Hux has borne up nobly so far, grief is like a summer storm on a clear day, quick and violent, and can strike without warning. While Hux looks peaceful now, lips parted, one hand resting on the mattress between them, Ben knows what potential for anguish is just beneath the surface. 

Ben moves his arm, closing the space between their hands, and thinks about touching him, struggling with an equation of benefit versus cost. He’s still thinking of it when sleep creeps up on him and drags him down into a dreamless dark.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up the town of Tully, Georgia, but I'm from the South (not that far from Atlanta), so this will inform my writing. If you'd like to see what Hux's house looks like, I fantasy-house-shopped (ok, this is a guilty pleasure of mine) and found it [here](http://georgiarealtysales.com/513Spring.htm). 
> 
> The overwhelming love the first chapter got was truly humbling. I thank everyone that left a kudo / comment (or just took their time to read this), and reading your thoughts gives me life. Thank you so much to each and every one of you. <3


	3. Bricks, Chained Around Your Feet

There’s something about the way that wind moves in towering trees. Their branches draped above the house, the leaves sound like a gentle summer rainfall, the susurration of a lazy ocean tide against a quiet beach. There’s one tree in particular that grows so close to the house that it will on occasion _brush, tap_ against the window, intervals irregular and yet somehow seeming to fit perfectly into the lulling symphony of the natural world. The melody is birdsong: the soprano trill of a wood warbler, the ethereal musings of a hermit thrush. Underlying all of it is a sort of serene quiet that occurs nowhere else but in the country, free from the din of larger life. There are no neighboring doors slamming, no car alarms blaring in the street, no muffled revolution of tires against concrete. Just peace.

The sheets beneath Hux’s cheek are cool and near silken from being washed often, smelling of subtle lavender fabric softener and cedar. The familiar ambience lies heavily across his consciousness, and for just a moment, Hux is sixteen again, with no cares beyond at what hour he might wander downstairs on a Saturday afternoon. He drifts contentedly in the hazy shallows of sleep for some time, before finally rolling over and stretching with a yawn.

His hand touches something not familiar, something out of place, and Hux’s eyes fly open. Seeing Ben lying next to him is a hammer-strike, reality crashing down so suddenly that he stops breathing for the space of long seconds.

_He’s not sixteen. He’s thirty-four, this is not his home, and his father is dead._

_And this is his roommate in the bed beside him._

Hux blinks in the white-yellow, coruscated sunlight, pushing aside the pervasive reminder of why he’s back in his family home in favor of regarding Ben Solo as he sleeps.

Hux has never been this close to him before. Ben is on his side, facing him, one tattooed arm crooked beneath his head, lips open, eyelashes long and dark against his cheeks. His jawline is darkened by a day’s growth, adding definition and accentuating the pallor of his skin. Hux is only inches away, their noses nearly touching, legs drawn up toward one another, and with just an innocent shift, Hux could touch him. Skin against skin, something human and solid tethering him to reality.

This all feels like a dream; he’s caught between two worlds, with something pivotal missing from the center.

The thought spurs a wave of sadness, rushing through him and making his whole body quiver with a rush of adrenaline like a thousand spiders crawling under his skin. The grief is pushing at his walls, the plea _let me in_ a plaintive echo against his defenses. Moving one hand, Hux digs fingers into his chest, right where it hurts, as though he might tear the feeling out. Ben shifts, sighs in his sleep.

 _I’m not doing this. I won’t do this,_ Hux tells himself. He hasn’t cried since he was a teenaged boy, and he’s not about to start now. Not lying next to Ben Solo in his childhood bed.

Hux rolls onto his back and takes a deep, stabilizing breath, forcing himself to think about lines of code. Bolstering himself with simple logic. _While (sad==true) { doDailyFunctions(); sad = checkMood(); }_

With that, Hux pulls the blankets back, and a heavy thump signifies Millicent dropping off the bed onto the floor; she’d finally deigned to join them sometime in the night. Turning his head, Hux regards Ben for a few more moments, but he’s still sleeping. Hux leaves him to rest, and shuffles to the bathroom to take his shower.

He finds it unsettling to stand under the stream of too-hot water and see the same bath products he’d used as a teenager. Not the same bottles, but the same brand, carefully picked out, no doubt, by his ever-considerate mother; it’s the cheap stuff he used to buy for its excessive fragrance element rather than its restorative properties. Why the hell had he ever thought that smelling like _Sensational Strawberry_ was a good message for a ginger to send? It might be funnier if he’d actually intended that to be a joke.

Hux forgoes that particular bouquet in favor of his more particular green tea salon products, and washes perfunctorily, trying mostly not to think. It’s easier. He knows that Ben has a habit of waking early, though usually before Hux, and an awkward shuffle in the small bathroom is the last thing he wants.

Oddly enough, however, Hux finishes dressing and opens the door again to see that Ben is still soundly asleep. Millicent has repositioned herself on Hux’s pillow, inches from Ben’s face, eyes closed. Hux stands and regards this scene for a long moment, inexplicably stirred by the serenity of it. He considers waking Ben because he doesn’t want to go downstairs without him, but then decides against it.

Familiar smells waft toward him as he walks down the stairs: bacon frying, fresh bread baking, strong coffee. It makes his stomach rumble even though his appetite is feeble. His mother is in the kitchen alone, her back to Hux as he enters.

“Morning, Mum,” he says, sorry when she jumps in surprise and turns from the stove.

Her smile is radiant enough, but doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Morning, sweetheart.” She holds an arm out to gather Hux into an embrace and kisses his cheek. “Did you sleep all right?”

Hux nods and steals a piece of bacon from the plate where it’s cooling. “Where’s Donnie?”

Aislain opens the oven door and checks the biscuits, closes it. “He and Holly should be here in the next half hour, or so. Hand me that pot.”

Hux pours himself a cup of coffee and leans against the counter, watching his mother. Weekend mornings had always been like this, with Aislain in the kitchen making breakfast, his father sitting just there, in that chair over at the dining room table, reading his paper.

Hux shoves this thought aside with a heavy heart. Seeing that his mother’s coffee mug is nearly empty, he refills it and hands it to her as she’s putting a pot of water to boil on the stove. “How are you holding up, Ma?”

Aislain accepts the coffee and props one hip against the counter beside Hux, blowing across the top of the cup. Her eyes, green like Hux’s, flick to him briefly, then dart away. “I’ll make do. Always have.” She reaches over and smooths a hand over Hux’s hair, and he forces himself not to wince. “What about you, darlin’?”

Hux stares into the inky dark coffee in his hand, wondering what the answer to that question really is. “I keep expecting him to come through the front door and yell at me for leaving my bike in the driveway.”

There is a moment of silence, and then Aislain rubs Hux’s back. “He loved you, you know.”

Hux cannot respond to that around the sudden tightness in his throat, and he turns his face up toward the ceiling to keep his tearing eyes from leaking. He can feel his mother watching him, and senses her desire to say more. Hux is glad when he hears footsteps on the staircase, and Ben enters the kitchen with a barely concealed air of wariness. His longish hair is wet from the shower, dipping dark water spots onto his green t-shirt.

“Well good morning to you, sunshine,” Aislain says with a bright smile, the singsong tone easily restored to her voice.

Ben gives her a cautious smile. “Good morning.” His eyes shift to Hux.

“Morning,” Hux says. “Want some coffee?”

“Sure.” Ben moves to get it himself, and Aislain waves him away.

“Guests don’t serve themselves in this house,” she quips, taking down a mug and filling it. She puts it in Hux’s hand instead of Ben’s. “I’m sure you know how he likes his coffee.”

Luckily, Hux does know this. He gives Ben a secretive smirk that he’s glad Ben returns in kind, and then goes to the refrigerator with the mug. “Who actually distributes milk in glass bottles these days, Ma?” He pours a measure in.

“Same place I got it when you were a boy. Mr. Jefferson’s farm down the way.” She turns the oven off, checking the biscuits again.

“You know gallon jugs are cheaper,” Hux says, shaking his head as he heaps in two spoonfuls of sugar. He turns to hand it to Ben, and it startled into silence when Ben wraps one arm around his neck and pulls him close, planting a kiss on his forehead. Belatedly, Hux realizes his posture is limp with surprise, and he darts a hand to the small of Ben’s back.

“Thanks, babe,” Ben says, taking a sip of his coffee. Hux remains tucked against his side, heart hammering. After a brief second, he pats Ben’s back and pulls away, but not before tilting his head up to give Ben a kiss just beneath his ear. Ben’s slight flinch is nearly imperceptible beneath his lips.

It doesn’t appear that Hux’s mother notices the tenor of awkwardness, and Hux starts to wonder if they’re better at this than it feels. She’s smiling at them, actually.

“The two of you make such a good looking pair,” Aislain announces, and begins to say something else when a car door slamming outside has her turning to look out the window. “Well, there’s your brother. Go let him in, Armie.”

It’s hardly necessary, Hux thinks. Domhnall is quite capable of opening a door on his own. Nevertheless, he’s always had a habit of doing what his mother tells him to. Making his way to the foyer, he swings the door open just as his brother is mounting the steps onto the porch.

Domhnall’s pace falters when he sees Hux, his expression mercurial, settling finally on a forced smile that is all white teeth and crinkled eyes. He bounds up the steps with more energy than Hux can imagine feeling, and grabs Hux into a hug that bodily tugs him out of the house and onto the porch. Hux sluggishly pulls his arms up to return the embrace, sees Domhall’s wife Holly pause on the top step watching them with a smile Hux would call hopeful. It makes his face hot.

“I missed you, jerk,” Donnie says, and Hux frowns at the epithet.

“I told you not to call me that.” He pulls himself out of Domhnall’s grip, forces a smile and reaches up to pinch one red-bearded cheek. “Missed you too, kid.”

Domhnall winces and ducks away. “Knock it off. Where’s Ma? She okay?” He peers around Hux into the house.

“She’s Ma,” Hux says. “You know how she is.” He means that she isn’t the type to make much of her feelings in front of anyone else, including her family. Southern women, she says, don’t do that. What geography has to do with it, Hux doesn’t know.

Domhnall gives him a tight smile. “Yeah.” He pats Hux on the shoulder and moves past him into the house. Hux stands there propping the door open for Holly, who pauses to kiss his cheek when she passes.

“Be nice, okay?” she whispers, and then squeezes his arm to soften the words before following her husband.

Hux lingers, trying to swallow down…feelings. He doesn’t know what they are. Belatedly, he remembers Ben is in the kitchen alone with his mother, about to be descended on by more of his family. The potential for things unraveling lights an anxious fire in his chest, and he shuts the door to hurry after them.

The kitchen erupts in high pitched chattering before Hux can get there - grating sounds of pleased greetings and introductions. He slips back into the kitchen before, he hopes, much more has taken place beyond Domhnall vigorously shaking Ben’s hand. Ben is wearing a lopsided grin that is fairly commonplace in response to Donnie’s animated character.

“Armie, this guy could bench press you!” Domhnall turns that bright smile on Hux, who flushes hard at the suggestion. What had be been thinking, to engineer this fiasco?

Holly gives her husband’s arm the same squeeze that she’d given Hux in the doorway, then offers Ben a hug that he has to stoop for. Aislain is standing beside the stove still, arms wrapped around herself, wooden spatula in one hand. She’s glowing, and it makes Hux feel panicky.

“Well, he was a great war hero, after all,” Hux says lamely, as though this has something to do with being able to bench press someone. He nearly bites his tongue after it comes out, especially since it makes Ben look at the floor and shove his hands uncomfortably into his back pockets. Hux’s stomach drops. He weaves around his family and snakes an arm around Ben’s waist, plastering himself to Ben’s side, receiving a seemingly reluctant arm around his shoulders in return.

Hux’s mother graciously comes to his rescue, hugging Domhnall and Holly both, and then turning the conversation to the innocuous subjects of coffee, breakfast, and the drive in from Atlanta. When all of their attention has left Hux and Ben, Hux takes the opportunity to lean upward and whisper in Ben’s ear.

“I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean…”

Ben shuts him up by tugging him close without warning, so for a brief second Hux’s face is flush with his neck. “It’s fine,” he says.

Hux isn’t sure about that, but he doesn’t get the opportunity to address it further, for his mother enlists his help to finish breakfast.

His mother has prepared a veritable feast; this has always been her favorite meal of the day, and as children, Hux and Donnie had always been expected to sit at the table before school and on weekend mornings. Brendol’s chair is empty now, and for some reason that bothers Hux more than anything has yet managed to. He can almost hear the echo of Brendol’s voice, droning on about dreary international news to their mother while Hux did the puzzles in the lifestyle section and Donnie read the comics.

Plates and bowls circulate, everyone serving themselves eggs, bacon, ham, homemade biscuits and gravy. The process comes to a brief halt, however, while Ben holds one dish and looks into it dubiously. Hux glances over and can’t help a bark of laughter.

Ben glances at him, looking lost. “What’s this?”

“Grits,” Hux informs him around a swallow of milk. “They’re good with butter. Try some.”

Brow creased, Ben nobly spoons a small helping onto his plate and passes the bowl off to Domhnall.

“You guys don’t have grits up in your fancy city?” Hux’s brother asks, grinning.

“Never heard of them,” Ben says, prodding at the globular white mass with his fork. He tastes a small bite, then reaches for the butter.

“So, Ben,” Aislain says, and Hux tenses. The family dinner table is just shy of a firing line, and he doesn’t know how he will manage to stay on top of this conversation. “Armie tells me you are in the security business.”

Ben nods. “Mostly government stuff.”

“Making sure what happens in Congress stays in Congress, eh?” Donnie asks, grinning.

Ben shrugs one shoulder and offers Donnie the small, enigmatic smile that Hux knows so well; it always accompanies any discussion about what it is that Ben _actually_ does.

“Have you been doing that long?” Holly asks, stirring butter into her own grits.

“Um...a couple of years.” Ben takes a bite of bacon, eyes on his plate. Hux can tell he’s uncomfortable. Moving a hand reflexively to touch Ben’s knee, Hux suddenly pulls it back, remembering they’re not together. And then he remembers that they’re supposed to seem like they are. He settles the hand on Ben’s thigh, and gets a short glance in return.

“So, before that, you were military?” This from Donnie, and it makes Hux wish he hadn’t brought that up in the kitchen earlier. There are things that Ben doesn’t like to talk about, and there are things he doesn’t like to talk about even more.

“I was,” Ben admits, and it seems like he means to leave his response at that, but after several seconds tick by and no one else speaks, he elaborates. “I was MARSOC. Marine special ops. Did two tours in the Middle East. Counterinsurgency. Backup for native security forces. I was a demolitions expert, primarily.”

That last bit is news to Hux. He starts to interject a question of his own, as he’s always been curious about Ben’s military history, but he catches Ben absently rubbing two fingers over the scar on his face. Hux gives his mother a pointed glance, catching her eye briefly. She interprets his gently lifted eyebrows correctly, and works her magic to change the subject just in time to circumvent another question from Donnie.

“We’re grateful to you, Ben. Did others in your family serve? I’m sure Hux has told you, our Brendol retired as a colonel in the Army.” She smiles, and Hux doesn’t miss that she glances at Brendol’s empty chair at the head of the table.

Ben’s shoulders droop in relief, perhaps. “Thank you. My grandfather was in the Air Force.” Ben shifts his hand to his knee, curls his fingers around Hux’s. “And yes, Hux told me. He was proud of his father.”

Hux looks at his plate, feeling the eyes of his family turn to him. He can’t remember ever saying that to Ben, and wonders if he’s embellishing on purpose or has read something between Hux’s lines.

“That’s how you met Brendol, isn’t it?” Holly asks with a look at Aislain. “When he was in the army?”

“It is, yes,” Hux’s mother agrees. She takes a moment to look at each of her boys. “He was such a character. Had this big, bright grin like Donnie, and serious, deep eyes like Armie. I thought he was just the handsomest, funniest man, smartest man I’d ever met. He took me to an air show for our first date, of all things. I’d never cared much about that kind of stuff, but we sat in the cockpit of an old B-17 and he talked about planes and I loved it.” Her voice wavers by the end, and she gathers her linen napkin to blot at her eyes. Setting the napkin down, her face is once again composed. “Too much pepper in the gravy, I think.”

“Ma,” Donnie begins, his tone imploring. “It’s okay to…”

Aislain waves a dismissive hand through the hair and gives him a tight-lipped smile that cuts him off. She turns her attention on Ben again. “How about you, darlin’? What did you think the first time you saw my Armie?”

“Come on, Mum, don’t put him on the spot like that,” Hux chides with a weak laugh, covering his discomfiture with swallow of milk. His hand is still on Ben’s knee, and Ben’s fingers tighten around it.

“I thought he was kind of a jerk,” Ben says, before Aislain can refute her son. Across the table, Donnie snorts and inhales his orange juice, hiding laughter behind his napkin while Holly gives him a dark look.

Hux glares at Ben, feeling his ears go hot. He tries to pull his hand away, but Ben won’t let him. Ben is smiling at his mother, his dark eyes sparkling with humor that Hux definitely does not share.

“When I moved in, he had a list of rules,” Ben goes on. “He actually typed them out. He wanted me to choose which days and times I planned to do laundry, and he labeled the shelves and the drawers in the refrigerator. And he wanted the bathtubs cleaned with Clorox once a week…”

“Sounds just like Dad,” Hux’s brother says. “Meticulous to a fault.”

Ben shrugs. “Turns out, it really worked for me.” Hux’s stare is full of daggers, but Ben meets it calmly, offers him a small smile. “After leaving the service, everything was kind of…chaos. Like it had been before the military. The way Hux did…does…things, is comforting, I guess. He’s kind of my...calm place in the storm.”

Hux had felt his mouth fall open somewhere in that speech, and he realizes how it must look, and shuts it. His face is burning, and he feels naked and exposed.

“That’s such a sweet thing to say, Ben,” Aislain is saying, beaming at them both, eyes glittering with yet more unshed tears.

It is suddenly more than Hux can take. He snatches his hand back from Ben’s thigh, offers everyone a crooked caricature of a smile, and shoves his chair back.

“I don’t know about ya’ll, but I need a drink.” He winces at the slip back into Southern slang, almost corrects himself, but decides he’s too tongue-tied for it. Firmly ignoring the curious expressions that follow him out of the room, Hux goes into the kitchen and clatters through cabinets until he finds a bottle of his father’s Glenlivet. Not even bothering to take down a glass, he heads through the foyer and out onto the front porch, letting the screen door bang shut behind him.

He appropriates Brendol’s rocking chair. It’s a heavy, hand-made affair with painted gold leaves around the edges of the seat, faded with time. It’s hot outside, nearly noon. Cicadas are a thrumming chorus in the shade, a slight breeze tickling the over-long grass.

Twisting the lid off the bottle, Hux thinks that Brendol would hate the fact that his lawn is not perfectly manicured. He takes a long drink, reveling in the burn as the twenty-one year old liquid fire sinks into his belly. It stretches fingers of false comfort through his limbs, and Hux wonders what Brendol would think of his son drinking his best liquor straight from the bottle. He takes another gulp, his leg bouncing, and then suddenly he lurches up again, fully intending to go to the shed and drag the lawnmower out to cut the fucking grass.

He’s at the bottom of the steps, mouth on the bottle, when the door opens again. Dohmnall lets it slam closed behind him the same way Hux had (their father hated it) and bounds down the stairs to Hux’s side. The bottle is plucked unceremoniously from Hux’s hand, and Donnie takes a long, healthy drink while linking his arm through Hux’s.

“Come on,” he says, tugging at Hux in the opposite direction Hux had been going.

“I’ve gotta cut the grass,” Hux argues, voice raspy.

If Donnie thinks this to be an odd declaration, he doesn’t say anything. He just tugs harder with the crook of his elbow. “Come with me to the pond.”

Behind them, the door opens again. There are footsteps on the porch. Hux imagines Ben, with his soft gaze and his comforting hands, and that’s enough to let Donnie pull him away.

His brother hands him the bottle back, and Hux takes another drink. He notices that his mother’s flowerbeds are dry, the zinnia and marigold half-baked and listless in the relentless summer sun. Hux can’t remember ever seeing them look that way. He finally turns around, looking to see if perhaps his mother had come outside to water them. To set this farcical world to rights again.

But no. Instead he sees Ben, walking behind them on the well-worn footpath to the pond. Holly has her hand tucked into the crease of Ben’s elbow, her navy blue dress fluttering around her in the breeze. Ben is looking down, dark hair obscuring his expression.

“Mum threw us out,” Donnie says, appropriating the liquor again. “They’re bringing Dad around in a little bit for the wake. She wouldn’t let us help her clean up.”

Hux’s jaw clenches. “Why does she think she has to do all this alone?”

“Why do you?” Donnie asks around a mouthful of Glenlivet.

“What are you talking about?” Hux growls, taking the bottle back. “I have Ben.”

Donnie makes a noise, and Hux’s eyes snap to him, searching for any hint of disbelief. Domhnall’s arm is still linked through his, guiding them. Instead of doubt, however, Donnie wears a crooked smile.

“So my big brother is really getting married.”

Hux turns his face to look across the yard, so Domhnall’s doesn’t see him grimace. He’s suddenly so _fucking bitter_ that it’s not really true. He’s not getting married. No one loves him. He’s just the disappointing, perpetual bachelor his father always thought he was. Taking another sip of the scotch, he finds it doesn’t go down as well.

“I wonder if Dad would have even bothered to come? Could he have told his friends he was heading to Chicago to see his gay son get hitched?”

Hux feels Donnie give him a sharp look. “That’s not fair. He loved you. You know he never gave a shit what anyone else thought. I mean, he got into a huge fight with Joe Davis and threw him off the property for calling you a...slur. I don’t think he ever talked to him again.”

Hux regards his brother with wide eyes, feeling them well up. “I didn’t know that,” he mutters, and Donnie shrugs.

“There’s a lot you probably don’t know about him,” Domhnall says. “You got the hell out of Tully the second you could.” He untangles himself from Hux as they near the pond, quickening his pace to reach the water’s edge first. Turning briefly around, Domhnall gives him a smile incongruous with his next words. “You took off and left all of us!”

Hux frowns, standing on the bank and watching Donnie pick up a handful of rocks. He hurls one far out into the middle of pond, where it disappears with a _plunk_ and a cascade of ripples. “What the hell was I supposed to do? Rot here like everyone else?”

Donnie throws another rock. “You could have come back to visit more than once a fucking year.” Another rock sails across the water. “Or called.” Another rock. “Or written a goddamned email.”

“Domhnall.” The voice belongs to Holly. “Why don’t you tell your brother about the promotion at work.”

Ben is suddenly at Hux’s side again, and Hux glances at him. Ben is looking at Donnie, seeming to gauge the tenor of this interaction. His brow is furrowed when he looks at Hux, and Hux offers him the scotch. Ben shakes his head.

Meanwhile, Domhnall has turned around, bouncing the remaining handful of rocks in his hands. “Oh, yes. The promotion. The one I got six months ago! The one I called to tell you about, Armie, but you didn’t answer the fucking phone. And then I called Dad and Mum, and turns out you’d been down to see them, but didn’t come see me.” Domhnall’s gaze swings to Ben. “I had to find out about my brother marrying you from my Da.”

“Donnie…” Holly says again, her tone cautious and sad both.

Domhnall ignores her, grinning at Hux. “And you know what, Armie?” His voice is shrill, and he tosses the handful of rocks back into the mud. “He was so _fucking_ proud of you. Just like he always was.”

Hux feels sick, and just stands with the lip of the scotch bottle dangling between two fingers at his side. Ben just stands silently at his side, like an island in the storm, and Hux unconsciously sways toward him. “You got a promotion?” Hux’s voice comes out weak.

Donnie snorts, stalks forward and grabs the bottle away from Hux. And then he just keeps going, heading along the bank of the pond.

Holly sighs, watching him walk away before glancing at Hux. “He hasn’t slept well,” she offers by way of explanation for her husband’s quicksilver shift in mood. “I’ll talk to him.” With that, she turns and follows Domhnall, raking her brown hair back into a knot.

Hux stares after them both, suddenly irritated that his liquor is gone. It’s the only feeling that he allows himself to have in the moment.

“I hope you don’t have siblings,” he sighs, looking at Ben.

Ben meets his eyes, and shakes his head. “Only child.”

Hux’s lips quirk. “That must have been nice.”

Looking out over the pond, Ben shrugs. “It was lonely.”

Searching Ben’s face, Hux looks for that any remnant of that loneliness, but Ben’s expression is shuttered. Suddenly, Hux doesn’t want to think about any of this, and he twines his fingers through Ben’s.

“Come on. I’ll show you where I used to go to escape the terrible tragedy of life.”

Hux’s steps are only slightly unsteady with too much drink; mostly, he feels buoyant, floating just upon the sun-warmed surface of a deep, dark sea of feeling. Ben goes with him willingly, content to share Hux’s silence, until they reach the edge of a line of trees that abuts the property. He stops at the base of a huge oak, its girth easily four times his size. A narrow wooden staircase ascends upward into the canopy.

Hux lets go of Ben’s hand, not waiting for him to say anything, and starts climbing. His limbs are longer and heavier than those of the gangly youth he’d been. The soles of his polished dress shoes don’t have the right kind of grip for scaling trees, and he’s on the edge of being drunk. Hux is slightly winded by the time he reaches the platform, fifteen feet or so from the ground, and he turns around to stare down at Ben.

“Well? Come on.”

Ben raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue. He takes the stairs two steps at a time, joining Hux on the platform in roughly half the time it had taken Hux to get there. There must be something to be said about Ben’s penchant for running at five AM every morning and going to the gym five days a week.

Hux pushes the door to the treehouse open, only needing to duck marginally to pass beneath the threshold. He moves a few steps inside, overcome with such a wave of nostalgia that his breath catches. The smells are so familiar: treated wood and tree loam, wild honeysuckle and pine needles. The spindly brown leaves are all over the floor, tracked up who knew how many years ago, resin-glued to childrens’ shoes.

Hux toes an old beanbag aside, catching a whiff of mildew. His father had put real glass in the windows, but one of them is broken, with the end of a dead branch thrust through it. Storm-damage, never repaired.

“Dad built this himself,” Hux tells Ben, his voice low, as though he doesn’t want to disturb the ghost of Brendol Hux. “It took him two years. Every weekend.” Hux runs his fingers over one windowsill, looking out over the yard toward the pond where it peeks through the leaves. “I was nine, and he told me it was my birthday present, but he made me help. Every weekend, carrying wood, holding nails. I fucking hated every minute of it.” Hux looks at Ben, and his frayed emotions make his eyes water. “And I told him that.”

Ben’s expression is sympathetic. “I’m sure he knew you didn’t mean it.”

“Did he?” Hux’s voice is high. He takes in a shaky breath, and sinks down to the floor, not caring about the detritus and dust. Without being asked, Ben sits down beside him, their backs against the wall.

“Tell me something about you,” Hux says, leaning into Ben, shoulder to shoulder. “What about your dad? Did you get along?”

Ben is silent for a time, eyes turned toward the rustling green outside the open door. Hux feels him take a deep breath. “No. I didn’t. I…don’t.”

Hux picks up a pine needle and twirls it between his fingertips. “Why not?”

Ben looks at his feet, scrubbing the sole of his shoe through the leaves on the floor. “I...guess I never felt like I was good enough for him.”

“I know that feeling,” Hux sighs, tossing the pine needle away. Absently, he touches a finger to Ben’s forearm where it’s draped across his knee. He traces a line along its curve, toward Ben’s wrist. “But why? Aren’t you basically perfect?” Dimly, Hux recognizes that his brain-mouth filter is offline, but he feels far to raw to give a shit.

“Aren’t you?” Ben deflects, bringing Hux’s eyes up to meet Ben’s.

“I was a terrible son,” Hux says, hearing how bitter he sounds. “And apparently I’m a shite brother, too.”

Ben turns his arm over, catches Hux’s fingers. Once again, they are linked together. “He’s just upset, Hux.”

Hux shrugs, concentrating on the way his own hand looks small and pale in Ben’s. “He’s right, though. He was only eight when I left home. Just a kid. I couldn’t get out of here fast enough. That first year, I didn’t even come home for Christmas. Didn’t send him a present or a card...nothing.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t care about you sending presents, Hux.” Ben rubs Hux’s knuckles with the calloused pad of a thumb.

Hux doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t buy it. It sounded to him, down by the pond, that Donnie cares about every slight and missed moment. “I’ve always thought of family like bricks, chained around your feet. You try to get away…try to swim to the surface, and they just drag you back down.”

He feels Ben looking at him. “What is it you’re trying to get away from, Hux?”

Hux doesn’t have an answer to that. Not a real one. “When’s the last time you saw your family?”

Ben looks away again, and his thumb stops its comforting caress. For a moment, Hux thinks his abrupt change of subject has sparked irritation, but when he glances over, Ben just looks pensive.

“They don’t know I’m home.”

Hux’s brow furrows. “What do you mean, they don’t know you’re home?”

“The ‘States.” Ben picks up a handful of pine-needles and leaves and squeezes them in his palm, shedding dried flecks over his pants’ leg.

It occurs to Hux suddenly what Ben means, and he sits up straight. “They think you’re still in the military? Do they know about the…crash?”

Ben shakes his head.

“Jesus, Ben. Why?” It’s easy not to think about himself in this moment, imagining Ben in the hospital with no family.

Tossing the crushed leaves away in a shower of dust, Ben shrugs. “I just…didn’t want their pity. I don’t want it from anyone.” He turns dark eyes on Hux, daring him, perhaps, to offer it.

Hux realizes, however, that he has no right to counsel Ben on his relationship with his family. _The pot calling the kettle black_ , his father would have said. “Seems like we have a lot in common,” he muses aloud, offering Ben a weak smile.

“That’s probably why I asked you to marry me,” Ben says softly, a smile bright and sad in his eyes.

Nervous, frayed energy erupts in a fit of laughter from deep in Hux’s chest, and he hides his face against Ben’s shoulder as it shudders through him. It tears at his seams, threatening to devolve into tears, and he sucks in several deep breaths. Somewhere in his sudden wave of hysteria, Ben’s other hand has found its way into his hair, combing it back from his damp cheeks. Oh. He _is_ crying.

He counts to twenty in his head, then silently recites all his account numbers, and then raises his face. Ben brushes the hair back from Hux’s forehead, then drops the hand back to his side. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask Hux if he’s _okay_ , and Hux is grateful for that.

“I’m glad I said yes,” Hux blurts, and Ben’s brow knits briefly until he seems to register what Hux means with a half-smile. Plowing ahead, Hux picks up their joined hands. “Even though you didn’t get me a ring.”

Ben’s smirk is fond, rolling his eyes. A moment of awkward silence passes while Hux struggles to think of something clever to say, and then Ben lets go of his hand. Hux is afraid, for a second, that he’s pissed Ben off somehow, struck some nerve as Hux is wont to do without intent. But then Ben is grasping something around his own neck, and lifting a chain over his head. Only at the last moment, when the two metal plates _clink_ as they come free of Ben’s shirt, does Hux realize he’s taking off his dogtags.

Hux is still in the process of registering why he’s doing this, now of all times, when Ben turns toward him and slips them over Hux’s head. Hux darts a hand up in shock and catches Ben at the wrist.

“What...what are you doing? You can’t give me these.” Hux is shivering, like he’s just plunged into a cold shower.

“I just did.”

Hux just sits there, mouth open, holding Ben’s wrist. He wants to say _I don’t deserve this,_ and _but we’re not actually engaged_ , but he can’t speak. Suddenly, all he can think about is the fact that he’ll have to go back in the house eventually , and face all the people he grew up with, all his father’s friends and family, everyone with their husbands and wives and children, all of them feeling sorry for lonely spinster Armitage Hux. Somewhere in that horrid vision, he has to face his dead father.

“I don’t want to do this,” Hux whispers, letting go of Ben’s wrist. “I don’t want to go back in that house.”

Ben still has the chain in his fingers, and he gives it a gentle tug. Hux sways forward willingly enough, because he’s boneless and numb. Then Ben’s forehead is pressed against his. “You won’t be alone,” he promises Hux.

Hux closes his eyes, hearing nothing but Ben’s breathing, warm against his lips. The weight of Ben’s dogtags around his neck seems to promise something, like Ben is loaning Hux a piece of himself to keep him afloat. Hux clings to it, a drowning man in a vast, angry ocean, hoping to keep his head above water just long enough to get to the shore.

 


	4. Windows Into The Soul

The afternoon passes lazily, as summer days are wont to do, and Hux gives Ben no indication that he wishes to abscond from the treehouse; in fact, as the first hint of a cool breeze curls in through the broken east window, Hux is leaning drowsily against Ben’s arm with lidded eyes. Ben can feel his shallow breathing in the rise and fall of his shoulder, and Hux’s fingers have gone slack where they’d previously been twined tightly with Ben’s. It seems that the full southern breakfast, a belly-full of liquor, and the syrupy afternoon heat have taken their toll. That, and the heavy burden of family.

Ben doesn’t disturb Hux from his half-slumber, for in truth he is nearly as loathe to return to the house as Hux must be. It’s not that he thinks poorly of Hux’s family; even though he isn’t particularly enamored of the way Domhnall is clearly inclined to needle at his roommate for past slights, it's hardly Ben’s place to judge. He knows better than anyone that sometimes those closest to you can hurt you the most.

He stares out the door of the tree house, which stands half-open and is swaying in and out on faintly creaking hinges as a wind begins to pick up outside. The light streaming in through the restless leaves has gone a shade of yellow-gray, heralding the edge of a storm, perhaps. Hux’s palm is warm against his own, slightly moist.

Ben reflects on the expression Hux had worn when Ben revealed he’d never told his parents that he was back in the ‘States, discharged from the service. He imagines what expressions Han and Leia might wear if they were to suddenly hear from their son after nearly three and a half years, only for it to come to light that he’d spent six weeks in a military hospital, alone, and his career had ended. The situation is at least partially reminiscent of what Hux described with his father; it wasn’t really intentional that things had deteriorated to this degree.

Phasma had been his emergency contact.She was his first and best friend in the service, and she knew better than to get Ben’s parents involved. She’d been out of the service by the time of the accident, having served her four years, and she kept in touch with him during his recovery via Skype and email. When Ben was adrift and aimless after being discharged, she’d suggested he come to Chicago. There was a guy she knew that needed a roommate - a cute redhead she’d met at the gay bar who could slam an Irish carbomb like a champ and had a thing for military history.

The transition from operative to civilian still has not been entirely executed, and some days, especially during the disorienting mornings, Ben is not sure it ever will be. He recognizes things in himself that are different than the man who had once had a purpose. It’s reflected starkly here with Hux’s family, where he’s pinned like a bug beneath the microscope of obligatory interest and polite questions. For one, he hardly has the sense of humor that he once did. He used to laugh easily, and now it’s daunting simply to keep people tuned in enough to be able to generate an adequate response. He feels, honestly, like a cardboard cutout of himself - flat, with nothing of substance behind the mundane facade.

It’s this, perhaps more than anything else, that has kept him from contacting his parents. He didn’t want the knowing _I told him so_ looks they would surely have exchanged at his beside during his recovery, but he’d told himself he’d call when he got settled in Chicago. Acclimation had been much harder than he anticipated, and he sometimes wondered how much Hux had registered of his process. Had Ben known the extent of the nightmares and the anxiety that he would face, he might never have agreed to Phasma’s suggestion of renting Hux’s spare room. Hux never brought it up, not then, and not now. It isn’t something Ben wants anyone to see.

And so he’s been spinning in an endless cycle, telling himself he’ll call his parents when he attains some goal or another: when he can sleep through the night without nightmares, or wake up and know where he is every morning of the week, or not get so angry he puts his fist through the his bedroom wall because a construction rig’s reverse motion alarm has been going off outside his window for thirty minutes. Hux doesn’t know about that one; Ben had smuggled in spackle and patched the drywall himself.

A few months had turned into a year, and then a year had festered into feeling ashamed of himself for his reticence and angry at his cowardice, and that had devolved into where he is now. Prone at the bottom of a hole he’d dug himself. He doesn’t hate his parents, but he can’t bring himself to trust that they wouldn’t be disappointed in him.

A sudden heavy gust of wind, laden with moisture, tosses the door shut with a crack, echoed by the basso rumbling of thunder in the distance. Hux jerks awake, fingers vice-like around Ben’s. He blinks, frowns, and rubs one eye with the back of his free hand.

“How long was I out?” Hux mumbles, peering through the window.

Ben shrugs. “A little over an hour, maybe.” He watches as Hux’s fingers stray across his own chest to touch the dog-tags, curling around their metal shape before tucking them beneath his collar. He continues to trace their outline through the fabric for a moment, expression unreadable.

“We should get inside,” Hux says. “The storms here can be violent.”

“You mean, in a tree might not be the best place to ride it out?” Ben smiles, disentangling their hands so he can stand. He reaches down and pulls Hux up after himself.

Hux smirks, though there isn’t much mirth in his eyes. “While being struck by lightning is honestly an appealing concept, I’m not sure I want to do that to my mother.”

Ben pushes the door open against the wind, and they make their way down the narrow ladder to the ground. The sky is ominous, steel gray clouds scudding before a tenacious breeze. The pond ripples in tiny wavelets, cat-tails and saw-grass bowing along its edges. Hux stands alongside Ben for a moment, gazing toward the house, lines creasing at the corners of his tired eyes. Ben tries to think of something encouraging to say, some promise to make about how this will pass and he’ll move on, but part of him is still haunted by the death of every friend and comrade he’d lost in his career. He knows that in a sense, one can never really shut out the ghosts. Instead, he offers a touch he means to be comforting, giving the base of Hux’s neck a gentle squeeze.

Hux turns, regarding him with eyes gone nearly iron blue. It makes Ben think of the adage about _windows into the soul_ , and he’s never thought it more accurate. Hux offers Ben a glimmer of a melancholy smile, sighs, and then starts toward the house, head down. Ben follows him, his slightly longer strides letting him catch up quickly, and he hooks his index finger around Hux’s pinkie. Not missing a beat, Hux flexes his palm and fits his hand into Ben’s, fingers linked once more. They are halfway to the house when Ben realizes he’d forgotten all about the role that he is supposed to be playing, and started acting on base impulse. There is no one watching them, no one to see if they behave like lovers.  

Hux isn’t walking quickly, hesitant, Ben is sure, to reach the house where he will have to face his brother’s ire. As though reading Ben’s thoughts, Hux casts him a look. “You didn’t have siblings, right?”

Ben shakes his head. He’d always wanted a brother or a sister, someone to play with as a child, protect as a man. Someone to feel forever connected to. “My parents had their hands full with me, I guess.”

Hux’s answering smile is soft, tinged with mischief. “Did you set the house on fire after you stole the family car?”

Ben snorts. “At least that would have been straightforward.”

“What does that mean?” Hux asks, raising an eyebrow. To the east, thunder booms again, closer now.

It’s not something Ben has ever told anyone, and doesn’t mean to say now, but it happens. “I never did that great in school. I was always too distracted. Discipline pissed me off, and I got a lot of it. Finally landed in the hospital when I was thirteen. In and out for three years. Ton of meds. Mom cried a lot.”

Hux takes this in, facing forward toward the house. He doesn’t offer a sympathetic expression, but he squeezes Ben’s hand. “Did it ever help? The hospital?”

Ben shakes his head, frowning at those memories. “No. Other than convince me I didn’t want to be on medication for anything. I always felt…broken. I guess that’s why I joined the military. To prove to everyone that I wasn’t.”

“Mission accomplished, I think,” Hux says, and Ben’s chest feels tight. The words _thank you_ are on the tip of his tongue, but his voice won’t quite work.

They arrive back at the house in silence, just in time to see a distant black hearse pulling out of the driveway and turning onto the road. Hux pauses and watches it fade into the distance, then lets go of Ben’s hand to wrap his arms around himself. It’s still muggy and tepid outside, but Ben sees gooseflesh prickling over Hux’s freckled arms.

“I guess this is it,” he mumbles, turning slowly away from the road and gazing up at the porch and the front door.

Ben tries to think of something comforting to say, but he can do no better than his proximity. After a moment, Hux shudders with a deep sigh, then moves up the stairs. His steps are heavy, like a man going to his death.

The casket is jarringly visible through the front door, beyond the open arch of the back drawing room. Hux jolts to a stop so suddenly upon seeing the figure of his father laid out within that Ben collides with his back while entering the house. Ben grabs Hux’s shoulders to steady them both, and before he can drop the contact, Hux darts fingers up as though to thank him for the support, tucking them under Ben’s.

So Ben leaves them there, feeling the slight tremble in Hux’s frame. He wants to do more, to wrap his arms around his friend and lend him solidity, but....

...why but? They’re engaged, right? He shifts the hand that Hux isn’t clutching, wraps it around Hux’s waist, and pulls him close. Hux’s muscles go stiff for a moment, his attention ripped from Brendol’s body, but then he relaxes into Ben’s grip. He lets go of Ben’s hand, presses himself more firmly back, and Ben takes this as an invitation to enclose him in both arms. The thrum of panicked energy that had been vibrating through Hux dissipates gradually, and his expression slowly graduates from one of abject terror to something more stalwart.

Finally, he pats Ben’s forearm. “I should go get this over with.”

Ben’s arms tighten around him. “You want me to come with you?”

Hux shakes his head and pulls away slowly. He turns to look at Ben, eyes flicking over Ben’s shoulder to the door, and back. “Thank you though,” he says softly.

Ben chews the inside of his cheek, nods. Then he flinches when Hux leans forward suddenly and kisses him. It’s just a quick, dry peck, right at the corner of Ben’s mouth, and he doesn’t even have time to react to it before Hux is pulling away.

Behind him, the door opens, and Ben turns to see Domhnall and Holly coming through it. Holly has the half-depleted bottle of Glenlivet, but only Donnie appears to have been drinking it. His eyes are bleary and red-rimmed. He gives Ben a small nod, and then has the same reaction to his father’s body that his brother had.

Ben moves out of the way, allowing Donnie to recover himself and slowly follow Hux into the drawing room. He moves like a zombie, shuffling hesitantly. Holly remains beside Ben, giving him a tired but friendly smile. She holds the whiskey bottle out, tilting it toward him. He shakes his head, wanting all his faculties for whatever fallout may come of this dose of cold reality that Hux is getting.

“Yeah, I don’t care for it, either,” she says. “Domhnall can drink it like water, but I can’t stand the taste.” She looks down at the bottle disdainfully. “I’m more of a wine person.”

“I’m easy,” Ben says, smiling. “Learned to appreciate the finer qualities of cheap beer in the service.” He glances toward the stairs leading to the second floor, skims the room where Hux and Domhnall are now standing beside each other next to the casket. Ben rubs one arm, not quite knowing what to do with himself in this moment.

“Well, I don’t think we have any of that around, but if you’re not opposed to cabernet, I’ll pour you a glass.”

Ben considers, then shrugs. “I could handle a glass.”

“Then come with me,” she says as she heads toward the kitchen.

Ben is surprised to see Aislain sitting at the dining room table. It seems she’d had the same idea as Holly, for a bottle of white wine is open on the table beside her, her fingers laced around the stem. She doesn’t look up at first, her expression unguarded and forlorn, and Ben feels momentarily as though he’s intruding on a private moment. Then Holly opens a cabinet, glasses are clinking, and Aislain startles, looking at them. With practiced ease, her face is schooled into a smile.

“There you are!” she says brightly. “Come sit with me.”

Ben hesitates for a moment, not sure why he does, and then goes to take a seat beside Hux’s mother. As he sits down, she reaches out and lays a hand - skin soft and warm - over Ben’s wrist. She pats it affectionately, and Ben feels a stab of guilt.

“Are you settled all right, dear heart?” she asks. “Were you comfortable last night? Do you need anything?”

Ben tries to remember when he’d fallen asleep the night before, but can only recall the vision of Hux’s sleeping figure in the moonlight- how he’d looked so peaceful. “Everything is good,” he reassures her.

A chair scrapes across the floor as Holly takes the seat across from Ben. She hands him a glass of red wine.

“Thank you,” Ben says, swirling it beneath his nose before taking a tentative sip.

She lifts her brows, inquiring. “All right?”

“It’s good,” he replies, though it’s honestly not his favorite thing. Hux always had several bottles of wine around the apartment, and they’d gotten drunk on a couple bottles of red together once. They’d watched Schindler’s List and played Risk, which Hux is devilishly good at. Ben’s hangover the next morning had been pretty abysmal.

Aislain squeezes his wrist gently. “How’s my Armie holding up?” Her eyes are plaintive, and so much like Hux’s.

“I’m not sure it really sank in until a few minutes ago,” Ben observes, looking compulsively over his shoulder to try to catch a glimpse of his friend, but the parlor isn’t visible from this angle. “I’m glad he asked me to come.” Ben suppresses a wince at this last, realizing such a comment doesn’t quite fit the mold of their supposed relationship.

True enough, Aislain raises both eyebrows. “Of course he did, sweetheart. He loves you.”

Ben feels his cheeks heat up, and he’s glad for the sudden distraction as Millicent bumps her head against his leg. He averts his face from Hux’s mother’s gaze to reach down and scratch the cat beneath her chin. She stands on hind legs, front paws on Ben’s calf, and mewls until he scoots back from the table enough to make a place for her in his lap.

Aislain is smiling at the scene. “I think it says something good about a person when a cat loves them. I always wanted one around the house, but Brendol…” She clears her throat and takes a sip of wine, replacing her smile. “Maybe I’ll adopt one now. I’m sure I’ll need the company.”

When Ben had moved the chair back for Millie, Aislain had let go of his wrist, and now Ben nudges his hand across the table again. She tucks her fingers into his and gives him the first smile he’s seen from her that reaches her eyes. Ben suddenly cannot help but imagine his own mother, alone during one of Han’s many out of town trips, with nothing but their French bulldog Gary to keep her company.

Aislain gives his hand a squeeze. “Did Armie ever tell you how he used to bring home all kinds of critters? Frogs, turtles, a chipmunk. He liked building things for them to live in. He made an ant farm once, out of CD cases and tape. He was so proud of it.”

Ben can’t help a genuine smile at that. It’s easy to imagine Hux caught up in such a pursuit. Outside, thunder rolls across the countryside, and Ben can hear the wind in the leaves. “He has a fish tank in hi… in our room,” he tells the two women, taking a sip of wine to cover his near slip. “It’s a whole ecosystem, with live coral and everything.” He feels Holly staring at him, so he looks at Aislain instead.

Her smile is fond. “That sounds like my Armie. Tell me. What were you like as a child?”

Ben is not expecting this question. It’s like trying to remember something about a character he read in a book a long time ago. The first memory that surfaces is of him in the woods behind his house, with a stick for a sword and a sheet tied around his shoulders for a cape. It had been from one of his mother’s nice sheet sets, and he’d gotten in trouble for it.

“I liked to pretend I was a knight,” he tells Aislain. “That I fought dragons and trolls and stuff. I had more make believe friends than real ones.” He doesn’t know why he adds that last bit.

Aislain gives him a sad smile. “Armie didn’t have many friends, either,” she tells him. “He used to spend all his time in his room reading, or building things. I can’t tell you how many legos I’ve stepped on in my time.”

Ben laughs at that. The idea of a small Armitage Hux playing with legos is completely endearing.

“I had hoped after Donnie was born he’d have his little brother to play with,” Aislain goes on, “but I think Armie was jealous of the attention we paid to the baby. He was so used to being the only child.”

“I’m not sure he ever got over that,” Holly sighs.

Ben feels compelled to defend Hux in some way, but he doesn’t know what to say. He looks at the table with its antique white cloth. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Aislain turn her head toward Holly, and then back to Ben.

“So tell me something about the two of you now. How’d you meet?”

Ben takes another drink of his wine, longer this time. Rain finally begins to patter at the window, and Ben realizes that while he and Hux had intended to get a story together, they’d both gotten distracted talking about themselves. He decides the truth is easiest. “We have a mutual friend. I served with a woman that works as a personal trainer in his neighborhood. She and Hux met at a ...um, bar, down the road from her work one night. They’ve been friends ever since. When I was discharged, Phasma told me Hux was looking for a roommate and that I’d like Chicago. I didn’t really have anywhere else to go, so…” He shrugs.

Aislain studies his face, and Ben wonders briefly if he’s said something wrong. “I can’t get used to you calling him Hux,” she says instead of anything incriminating.

Ben smiles. “I’ve never known him as anything else. I didn’t figure out it was his last name until I made it to the mailbox before him one day.”

Shaking her head, Aislain reaches out and takes the bottle of wine, pouring a little more into her glass. “Was it love at first sight?” she asks, eyes bright.

Recalling the conversation in their own kitchen the day before, Ben wonders again what to say. He decides to again to err on the side of truth.

“I thought he was beautiful. He has this way of looking at you like he can see everything that makes you tick. And I love his laugh. He doesn’t do it much, so whenever I get him to… I feel like… I don’t know. Like I did something special.” He takes a deep breath, realizing he hasn’t said this much out loud about Hux since they’ve known each other. He’s kept all this for the dark of night.

Aislain’s eyes remain on Ben until the last moment, her smile a mix of pensive and pleased, and then she looks away, to something behind Ben. In that exact moment, hands come down on his shoulders, he jumps, and it takes all his self-control not to squeeze the stem of the wine glass in half in his surprise.

His heart is thrumming with the burst of adrenaline, nonetheless, and it upsets Millicent. She bounds onto the floor with a disgruntled huff, and promptly begins to bathe herself. Ben tells himself he should turn around, should acknowledge Hux in some way instead of sitting frozen, wearing what he does not doubt is a stricken expression. His shoulders are stiff when Hux’s fingers compress over them, thumbs seeking the tension and chasing it deftly.

“Ben was this great mystery. I used to imagine he was a spy. Some sexy James Bond type with a secret mission, and that we’d fall in love and I’d get embroiled in something that would end in a car chase and us escaping to some Mediterranean country with new identities.”

Hux’s fingers continue to kneed the muscle in Ben’s shoulders, thumbs moving to his neck. Donnie circles the table, sinking into the chair beside Holly, who puts a comforting hand on his back. Ben only half forces a smile at Hux’s fantasy scenario, but he can think of nothing to say. Hux goes on, fingers moving up now into Ben’s hair, which he combs back gently, making Ben’s scalp tingle. “I thought he was gorgeous, and strong, and a good man. So yeah. It was love at first sight.”

Ben’s face is definitely warm now, though he tells himself Hux is just playing a part. Nevertheless, his stomach flips inelegantly when Hux’s lips are suddenly on his jaw, just below his ear. They linger there, and then he moves them up an inch, just brushing against his ear lobe before whispering, too low for anyone else to hear: _“Now you’re trembling.”_

Ben lets out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and it comes out as a weak huff of laughter. He ignores the way everyone’s eyes are on them. Hux is suddenly gone, and there’s a sound of glass scraping across a counter. Ben turns to see him taking the bottle of Glenlivet from where Holly had left it in the kitchen, and then he’s walking out the door toward the stairs.

“Ben,” Hux calls as he walks, that being the only indication to Ben that he wants him to follow.

Ben doesn’t move for a space of long seconds, then he drains his glass of wine in one long drink. Glancing back at Hux’s family, he clears his throat. “I … excuse me?”

Donnie raises an eyebrow and gives him a roguish grin. “Middle of the day with a dead body in the parlor, huh?” Holly gives him an appalled look and pinches his arm. Aislain pretends not to have heard. Ben flushes, and excuses himself again. Behind him, he hears Donnie say “ _what?”_ in an indignant and amused tone.

Hux is in their bedroom, whiskey bottle on his lips, staring out the window at the rain. Ben shuts the door softly, then feels silly for having done so. He leaves it though, and hovers there, wanting to ask Hux about what he’d just said in the kitchen, but telling himself _he’s just acting._

“How are you feeling?” he asks instead.

Hux doesn’t respond immediately, tilting the bottle up again for another drink. Finally, he turns away as thunder shakes the glass in the window frame. Walking to a bookshelf against the far wall, Hux picks up what looks like a small trophy; it’s burnished gold, shaped like a brain on a narrow pedestal. Hux regards it for a moment, then turns halfway to face Ben.

“I won this in sixth grade for the science fair.” He gives Ben a lopsided smile, and Ben thaws some, moving closer to Hux. When Hux offers him the bottle of whiskey, Ben takes it this time. It burns going down, but settles hot and reassuring in his stomach.

“I did this project on how cannons work. Old versus modern artillery. My dad loved it. We used to sit up talking about tactics in warfare instead of reading bedtime stories. Mum gave him shit for it, but Da always said “ _he’s a Hux, woman! Warfare is in his blood!”_

Hux sets the trophy down slowly, fingers lingering on it a moment. “I think my dad always thought I’d end up in the military like him. When I went to college instead I think … that he thought he’d done something wrong. Hadn’t raised me right.” Hux glances at Ben, takes back the bottle of whiskey when it’s offered.

Ben can see the sadness in Hux’s eyes, and hurts for him. “I’m sure he was proud of you, Hux.”

Hux shrugs. “Was he?” He doesn’t wait for Ben to answer, but turns back to the bookshelf. Next, he picks up a framed photograph. Ben can see over his shoulder that it’s Brendol with his two boys. Hux is spindly with a huge crooked smile, red hair hidden by an aviator’s hat that dwarfs his small head, straps hanging to his narrow shoulders. Behind them is an old World War II Spitfire. 

“We went to the airshow every year until I was sixteen. That year I wouldn’t go, because I … guess I thought I was punishing him for something stupid we’d fought over. I don’t remember what, but I still remember his face…” Hux looks at the door. “He stood in the doorway just staring at me when I told him I wasn’t going, like he didn’t understand. Then he just walked away and took Donnie. Bitter fucker never asked me again, and I was too goddamned stubborn to ask him first.”

Hux’s words hit too close to home for Ben to manage a meaningful response, and so he touches him instead. He could have just brushed Hux’s arm, or his shoulder, but instead he touches his face. Runs a thumb over a high cheekbone. Hux’s eyes lid briefly, and he turns his face into the touch like a cat. It makes Ben’s heart skip a beat.

Hux blindly sets the picture back on the shelf without turning around, and hooks those fingers into the hem of Ben’s t-shirt. He’s suddenly giving Ben an intense gaze of the sort he’d just tried to describe to Hux’s family downstairs.

“Don’t do what I did, Ben.” Hux demands, emphasizing it with a tug on his shirt. “I don’t know what you’re upset with your dad about, but call him anyway. Don’t say you’re sorry if you’re not, but fucking call. Go visit. I’ll go with you. But you don’t want to feel like this.” His eyes finally well up, glistening. “I’ve never felt this out of control in my entire life.”

Ben makes a low sound of sympathy, of acknowledgement of Hux’s plea, but he doesn’t speak. Instead, he steps forward and closes Hux into his arms. Hux molds against him easily, hands going to Ben’s back, nails hard through the shirt. Burying his head in Ben’s neck, he cries soundlessly, and Ben might not have known but for the tremor in Hux’s shoulders and the way he can feel the hot tears on his skin.

Ben holds him for long minutes, face in Hux’s hair, eyes closed. He doesn’t think, doesn’t analyze any of it. He just wants to keep Hux from drowning, in whatever way he can. The storm rages on outside, the wind lashing the rain against the window in torrents.

At last, Hux shifts, and Ben loosens his grip to allow him to step away, but he doesn’t. Instead, Hux merely turns his head, and Ben feels something else against his neck. Dry lips over tear-stained skin. Ben stops breathing, thinking it had just been an accident, but then Hux presses another kiss beneath his jaw. Ben’s intake of breath is unintentionally sharp, and he shudders.

“Hux…” his voice is a low rasp, and Hux ignores it, moving his lips to Ben’s cheek, inches from his lips. Then Hux’s hand is on his face, turning him, and then their lips meet.

Thoughts burst to life in Ben’s mind, and he goes tense all over for a moment, rationality telling him things like _he’s out of his mind with grief,_ and _this could be anyone right now, and he’d need this_ , but then Ben is the one drowning, and all he can think about is how good Hux’s mouth feels on his. Warm, parched lips, just a little rough. Whiskey and salt. Insistent, gentle for only one moment before there are teeth, then a hot tongue, and then Hux’s hand is knotted in Ben’s hair, and Ben’s hands are touching skin that is so achingly fucking soft.

Hux’s shirt is rucked up over his hips where Ben’s hands are beneath it, and Ben finds himself moving backward, following Hux’s guidance. They don’t part until Ben’s legs hit the back of the bed, and he’s slightly unbalanced. He tries to catch himself to remain standing, but Hux’s hands on his chest push him down. He looks up at him in surprise, knowing that wherever this is going, it can’t go here right now. Then Hux is straddling his thighs, and his lips are pressed against Ben’s again, and Ben _can’t fucking think_. Someone makes a desperate needy sound and he thinks it was him. His heart is hammering and his entire body is hot, every part of him reacting to Hux’s body against him.

The awareness of how uncomfortably, suddenly hard he is pulls him back to reality, though the tether is fragile. He breaks their kiss, breathing raggedly, belly full of fire. “Hux, what…” he tries, but Hux withdraws his hand from Ben’s hair to cover Ben’s lips with long fingers. His pupils are fat and the green irises have gone a shade of deep green that Ben has never seen before. It takes Ben’s breath away, seeing plainly that he’s desired.

Hux replaces his fingers with his lips, and now the kiss is slow, searching, teasing out Ben’s response with tiny flicks and caresses of tongue. Ben gasps against Hux’s mouth when he feels his hand lift the hem of Ben’s t-shirt, brushing the skin of his belly. Knuckles graze the hair below Ben’s navel, and then that hand is slipping beneath the waistband of his pants.

That, finally, startles Ben out of his dream-state. He squirms, catching Hux’s wrist, and pulls his hand away. He reaches up, grabs the other hand where it is still tangled in his hair, and holds them both at Hux’s side. Hux’s eyes are lidded, brows drawn down, face a mask of indignant confusion. He tugs once at Ben’s grip.

“Let me go. I need this.”

Ben sucks in a deep breath. “Not now,” he insists with no small regret. His fingers loosen involuntarily as Hux shifts in his lap, seeking friction for his own erection, trying to dip his head back to Ben’s mouth.

“Why not?” Hux complains in a hoarse voice.

“Because…” Ben finds he doesn’t know exactly how to tactfully voice the fact that Hux’s father is lying in an open casket just beneath this room. “Because this is a really emotional day. We’ve been friends for two years. This is … a leap.”

Hux frowns, strains forward to try to kiss Ben again, but Ben moves his head back. Finally Hux's body goes limp, shoulders slumping. He sighs, and looks away. Ben sees his cheeks color slightly, and he feels bad for it. Releasing Hux’s wrists, Ben wraps his arms around Hux’s waist and pulls him close. Hux allows it, and Ben rests his head against Hux’s chest, pressing one kiss to the delicate pale collar bone where it peeks from beneath his shirt.

Hux is tense in his arms for a moment, but then he lifts his arms sluggishly to wrap them around Ben’s neck. He hides his face in Ben’s hair, and Ben can feel Hux’s rapid heartbeat as it slowly returns to normal.

“I’m sorry,” Hux murmurs after a moment.

“Don’t be,” Ben assures him. “Please.”

Hux says nothing for a while, then begins to vibrate with laughter. “I think I’m a little drunk.” He pulls away from their embrace, giving Ben a guarded smile. Ben studies Hux’s face, wondering if that’s indeed all this had been about. High emotions and booze. It makes his throat tight.

Hux shifts out of his lap then, taking away his comforting body heat. He glances at Ben from beside him on the bed. “I think I need to sleep for a minute.”

Ben sits there for a moment, picking at a frayed cuticle until it hurts. “Do you want me to go?”

Hux’s expression then gives him some hope. “Why would I want you to go?” Hux asks.

Ben says nothing, but moves over so Hux can stretch out on his side. He hesitates for a time, still, but when Hux turns to look at him over his shoulder, Ben finally lays down beside him. He’s on his back, staring at the ceiling, like a corpse himself, paralyzed with anxiety and confusion. Then Hux rolls over with a sigh, and nestles into Ben’s side.

Hux seems to fall asleep easily enough, but Ben lies awake, listening to the rain and to Hux’s soft, even breathing. He struggles with a bone-deep need to roll over and hold Hux against him, and then asks himself what holds him back. Fear of rejection? Was it not just him that had, for all practical purposes, rejected Hux? He imagines what must have gone through Hux’s mind - that perhaps he’s unwanted, or insufficient, or not good enough for Ben. So he turns, and puts his arm around him, and pulls him closer. Hux’s hair tickles his nose, Ben’s left arm is almost asleep, but feeling Hux against him this way is a powerful drug, and he’s asleep in minutes.


	5. The Dial of Cognizance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was, for some reason, extraordinarily hard for me to write. I struggled with how much of the actual wake to write, to limit the story being about that aspect as opposed to Ben and Hux, and I hope I achieved a balance that does justice to the story as a whole. The end of the chapter was a crossroads and I was not sure myself what path the characters would take. Honestly, they wrote themselves, despite my original intentions for this part. I hope you all enjoy it. :)

Consciousness fades back in like a television show with a bad connection: there’s a sound like static, a distant voice, bleary half-light beneath heavy eyelids, then darkness again. Finally, he becomes aware of tactile sensations, and they serve to tune the dial of cognizance. There’s a heavy weight over his side, his back pressed against a warm body that is molded against him, around him, like a shell between Hux and the reality that he must inevitably emerge back into. 

i As his mind comes online again, he is forced to relive a succession of emotions. He remembers that his father is dead, and he sees the way Brendol’s face had looked, pillowed in the casket downstairs. There had been a pallor to him that the mortician could not entirely disguise with their macabre death magic. Hux wonders how many times he will have to wake up and experience this realization anew. When will the world simply cease to try to contain his father? 

The second emotion that Hux feels is shame, coupled with a hyper-awareness born from Ben’s proximity. It reminds him what had taken place - minutes, hours before, when Hux had transformed from a weeping child to a feral, sex-crazed beast.  _ What the fuck had he been thinking? _   Ben is his roommate, his friend … or had been his friend, if Hux hadn’t destroyed that by bulldozing over boundaries.

Hux shifts nervously, meaning to slink away from Ben’s embrace, to escape downstairs where he can perhaps ignore this until later, but three things happen in quick succession. First, lightning flashes outside the window, illuminating the dusk-draped vista, and then thunder cracks like a hammer, shaking the very boards of the house. It startles Hux, but it startles Ben far more, and Hux’s breath is briefly smashed from his chest as Ben’s arm reflexively clamps around him. Ben lets go just as quickly, and then the comforting press of his body is gone, and Hux hears the headboard of the bed smack against the wall, hard. 

Hux turns his head, sees Ben sitting upright with his back against the headboard, eyes wide and head on a swivel, and Hux has a startling suspicion that Ben is seeing something that Hux is not party to. 

Sitting up, Hux reaches out a hand and brushes Ben’s arm. “Hey?”

Ben sucks in a deep breath, blank gaze immediately clearing as he focuses on the hand touching him. Quickly, he scans the room, takes in the window and the streaming rain, and finally Hux. 

Blinking, Ben says in a voice still husky with sleep and disorientation: “Sorry. I … was dreaming.”

Hux knows better. He knows Ben has nightmares, and given what Hux knows of Ben’s history, it’s likely there is lingering PTSD, but if Ben doesn’t want to talk about it, Hux won’t press the issue. Indeed, Ben searches his face with a measure of apprehension, Hux thinks, and then visibly relaxes when Hux says nothing. Thunder cracks again, rattling the window, but this time Ben does not even flinch. 

“Still raining,” Ben observes, looking over Hux’s shoulder to the deepening twilight. 

Hux allows him to change the subject, happy to talk about the weather if it will lead away from any of the more substantive and potentially embarrassing matters they could discuss. “Yeah. Hopefully it stops in time for the funeral tomorrow.” 

Ben looks at him with dark, sad eyes, and Hux realizes how matter-of-factly he’d just said that, as though he was hoping that the newspaper would still be delivered on time. Ben sits up, puts a hand on Hux’s knee.

“I’m here, if you want to talk about it.” 

Hux nods, looking at Ben’s hand instead of meeting his eyes. He feels the weight of Ben’s dog tags around his neck, and wonders what Ben had meant by that gesture. It’s the first time that he’s actually even considered it, which makes him feel self-absorbed. He wants to ask if Ben means for him to keep them, if they are a symbol of some feeling that Hux hadn’t known was there, but Hux is too afraid to hear that they are just a prop in this farcical theater production that he’ll have to return when the curtains fall. 

When he looks back at Ben, Hux realizes with a flush that he’s tracing the pattern of the dog tags through his shirt again, baring his mind. Ben had offered to talk about his father, and the impending funeral, and yet Hux’s thoughts had clearly turned to Ben and all that lies unspoken there. Dropping his hand to his lap, he’s grateful for the fact that someone chooses to ring the doorbell at the exact moment Ben opens his mouth to speak. 

“That must be someone getting here for the wake,” he points out, sliding off the bed and walking to the bathroom to run a comb through his hair. He senses Ben moving through the room, and then the overhead light comes on. Hux finds that he is hyper-attuned to Ben, as though waiting for him to bring up that kiss, or worse, Hux in his lap with a swollen cock. The thought makes his color rise, reflected in the mirror, and he rubs one cheek with the back of his hand as though he can scrub the blush out. 

Ben, of course, chooses that moment to enter the bathroom as well, brushing past from behind in a way that makes Hux’s eyelids flutter with the full contact of a hand on his hip and lower bodies pressed briefly together. It’s not intentional, Hux thinks, because the bathroom is small and Hux is basically in the doorway, but it’s so naturally intimate that it opens a chasm of longing in Hux’s chest. 

Hux continues to comb his hair slowly as Ben brushes his teeth, and thinks that while he absolutely wants sex out of a relationship, even more than that, he wants the mundane, every day interactions. He wants to get ready for work quietly beside someone in the morning, just like this. He wants to buy groceries together, to put in a refrigerator without assigned shelves. To share a gallon of milk. To do laundry in the same loads, and lay in bed reading different books at night. Or maybe even the same one. 

The doorbell rings again, and draws Hux from his pathetic reverie. He finally sets down the comb, his hair having long ago been tamed, though he passes his hands over it anxiously anyway. Ben is watching him in the mirror, and suddenly pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth, turns his head, and plants a pasty kiss on Hux’s cheek. 

“Bootiful,” Ben says around a mouthful of toothpaste as Hux squeals in alarm at the white lip print on his face. 

It shows up quite nicely against his bright pink skin. “You’re out of control,”Hux mutters, trying not to smile as he runs fingers under the tap to scrub the mark off. 

Ben has a wan half-smile, though his eyes are dancing. Hux feels an overwhelming urge to fit himself into Ben’s arms, to feel those soft lips on his, but he can’t start that again. They are doing a good job thus far of pretending it hadn’t happened, and Hux is happy to persist with that illusion. 

By the time they make it downstairs, Hux’s mother is just answering the door for the third time. Pausing in the hall, Hux looks to see who it is, though it’s someone he doesn’t immediately recognize. Before Hux is obligated to say anything, he moves toward the kitchen, Ben following. If he had his way, Hux would hide upstairs all night, but for now, the kitchen will have to do. The first thing he does is raid the cabinet for liquor, and comes away with a bottle of Jack Daniels. Taking down a glass, he glances over at Ben to see if he should get an extra for him, and finds Ben giving him a look that is part concern and part disapproval. 

“What?” Hux unscrews the cap on the bottle and tips it over the tumbler. 

Ben’s expression goes blank and he shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Getting an icecube from the freezer, Hux eyes Ben skeptically. “No, what were you thinking?” Distantly, Hux realizes he’s being antagonistic, which seems to be the mood his family puts him in.

Raising an eyebrow and frowning, Ben says: “I was going to ask you if you thought you should be drinking tonight, but then I realized it’s not my place.”

Hux takes a long sip, nose flushing at the burn down his throat. “Right. You’re just my  _ fake _ fiancé after all.” He winces immediately, because the tone came out acerbic and bitter, and he’d meant to make an inside joke. 

Ben’s eyebrows are pinched over his nose, frown deepened. “Right,” he echoes, folding his arms. “Just your fake fiancé.” 

Hux opens his mouth to apologize for sounding like an asshole, which he can’t seem to stop doing, but a voice booms from the kitchen door, startling him. 

“Well look who it is! Little Armitage Hux, in the flesh.”

Hux blanches, but bites his tongue for a count of five before he opens his mouth. Maybe he ought to start doing that with Ben. “Uncle Sheev. How are you?” 

His great-uncle glides over the tile floor and takes Hux by the shoulders, squaring him as they size one another up. Hux notes with some pride that he is now at least two inches taller than Sheev, as though that has some intrinsic meaning. 

“I’m about as well as I can be,” his uncle drawls, “given this business. I’m sorry about your father, Armitage.”

“Don’t…yes. Thank you,” Hux grinds out, stiff as a board in Sheev’s iron grip. Hux can’t get to his drink, and he desperately wants to. Tossing his head at Ben, he derails any further unwanted displays of sympathy. 

“This is my fiancé. Ben Solo.” 

His great-uncle looks over and up, forehead wrinkling. Hux waits for some homophobic comment, his heartbeat picking up pace. Instead, Ben offers Sheev his hand, and his uncle hesitates only a moment before taking it. 

“Nice to meet you,” Ben says, his voice lacking enthusiasm. When Hux glances at him, he can tell by the way his lips are pursed that Ben is irritated and trying to hide it. 

Sheev raises two white eyebrows. “Nice grip you’ve got there, son.” Shrewd green eyes take in the intricate tattoos that cover both of Ben’s arms. He speaks two words in a language Hux doesn’t recognize, and for a moment Hux thinks his uncle is casting a spell (it wouldn’t surprise him, the old bat) but then Sheev goes on, and Hux realizes he’s translating the letters on Ben’s right bicep.

“Devil dog, eh? Marine?”

Ben raises both eyebrows. “Yeah. Nine years.” 

Hux had never asked what the words meant. Probably because he’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve Ben as friend or a fake fiancé or anything else.

“Well then,” Sheev continues, letting go of both Ben and Hux simultaneously. “What are you doing with yourself in Chicago, Armitage? Your father said you are in computers.” 

Hux has a sudden vision of himself inside a giant computer, wedged between the motherboard and the sound card, and a bark of laughter escapes. He quickly clears his throat as both men look at him curiously, and hides again in his drink. “Um, yes. I, uh...am in computers. I perform functional analyses, timeline analyses, detail trade studies, requirements allocation and interface definition studies to translate customer requirements into hardware and software specifications.”

Sheev blinks at him. “And what on Earth does that mean?”

Hux sips his drink. “I program technology for warfare.” 

Unexpectedly, Ben curls an arm around his waist and tugs him close, kissing the side of his head. “He makes it harder to kill our soldiers.”

Hux hadn’t thought of it that way. He exists in his own compartmentalized universe, where his purpose begins and ends with his required lines of code. Something about Ben’s very real-seeming gratitude makes it take on an entirely new significance, and he flushes, turning just enough to brush his nose against Ben’s cheek. 

“A noble pursuit then,” Sheev declares, giving them both a look that Hux would have to call slightly queasy. “I’m going to go say hello to your mother.” With that his not-so-great-uncle shuffles out of the kitchen, throwing them one last glance over his shoulder. Hux kisses Ben’s cheek and smiles.

“Westboro Baptist,” Hux snaps when Sheev is out of earshot. 

Ben vibrates with laughter. “At least he shook my hand. And apparently he reads Greek."

Hux makes no move to extract himself from Ben’s half-embrace. Instead he turns his face up and gives him a stern look. “You didn’t have to grow up in this rat-hole. East coast brat.” 

Ben snorts and dips his head closer to Hux, so his words are a warm breath on Hux’s lips. “Ever heard of  _ don’t ask, don’t tell?” _

“You can’t one-up my tragic existence, Ben Solo,” Hux murmurs, tilting his head forward another inch. 

“I’m far more emo than you give me credit for.” Ben’s nose touches his. 

That makes Hux laugh out loud, and he sees it light up Ben’s eyes, and Hux remembers Ben’s words from the kitchen that morning.  _ I love his laugh. He doesn’t do it much, so whenever I get him to… I feel like… I don’t know. Like I did something special.  _ Heat creeps up his neck, and his stomach flutters madly when Ben kisses him. 

It’s nothing like the kiss from Hux’s bedroom - no urgency, no teeth. It’s sweetly tender, and it makes Hux feel like a teenager, trying something for the first time that he’s only dreamed about. The part of his brain that manages to cling to logic demands to know if this is real, if Ben is just acting, because anyone might walk in at any moment, but then Ben’s tongue touches his, and he decides immediately that he doesn’t care. Hux swivels so he’s facing Ben and drapes his arms, Jack Daniels and all, around Ben’s neck. Ben makes a small noise that sends a shiver to Hux’s toes, because he can hear the need, and that can’t be faked. It can’t be. Right? What if…

“Seriously? All afternoon in the bedroom and you have to make out in the fucking kitchen, too?” 

Hux snaps around, bourbon sloshing over Ben’s shoulder and onto the floor. It makes Ben jerk backward in surprise and mutter a muted curse. Hux’s eyes fix on Domhnall, who is in the kitchen doorway with one hand white-knuckled on the frame and the other wrapped around the neck of a gin bottle. 

“How about you fuck off, Donnie?” Hux barks.

“Hux,” Ben cautions, hand on his back, but Hux is in no mood. 

“How about you show some god damned respect?” Domhnall counters, both red-blonde eyebrows arching. 

Hux feels his face blotching. “Are you taking on the role of Da now that he’s gone? Putting me in my place and making me feel like shit?” 

Domhnall lurches fully into the kitchen, gesturing at Hux with the bottle of gin. His step isn’t unsteady, so Hux suspects he’s more in the lax inhibitions phase of drunk. “You haven’t spent five minutes in the damn house with your family. Why did you even bother coming?”

Hissing in a breath, Hux snarls: “That’s a really damn good question.” He throws back the glass of bourbon, picks up the bottle, and stalks past his brother. Their shoulders collide with enough force as Hux forces himself through the door that Domhnall stumbles sideways.

“Oh, that’s right, run away, Armie,” his brother sings after him, loudly enough that heads turn in the parlor to observe Hux slipping out the front door and onto the porch. 

Hux walks the length of the porch, fuming. Another car pulls up in the muddy driveway, and Hux deliberately turns his back, not caring who it is. The rain has abated for the moment, though lightening still spiderwebs along the bellies of swollen black clouds. He takes another pull from the bottle, and hears the screen door creak open. There are a few reserved words Hux can’t make out, and then steps approach him so softly that he barely registers them. 

The hand on his shoulder makes him jump. Stubbornly, he refuses to look around until his mother speaks.

“I know why you wanted to leave here, and I don’t blame you.”

Hux looks at her. She looks tired, and resigned, and some of Hux’s anger ebbs away. “It’s not because I don’t care,” he says, sounding like a plaintive kid who just doesn’t want to get in trouble.

Aislain brushes back his hair, which is too long now to really stay neat. “I know that. Your father understood, and wanted you to be happy. Donnie … had a hard time when you left.” 

“That’s not my fault.” Hux takes another drink, but it just makes his stomach clench.

Aislain drops her hand, giving him a thin-lipped frown. “I raised you to have more compassion than that.”

Hux turns away, staring out over the rain-drenched yard. The treeline is a distant dark smudge on the horizon, the sounds of nature dulled as creatures of the night have taken shelter against the storm. It makes the house seem like a tiny island in a lonely sea. 

The screen door opens again, shuts softly. Brendol’s rocking chair creaks, and it sends a chill through Hux, imagining his ghost has come to observe the family he’d left behind disintegrate further. Hux looks around, but sees that it’s just Ben, giving he and his mother privacy. 

“The two of you are fortunate,” Aislain says, having noticed Ben as well. “He really cares about you.” 

_ Does he? _ Hux wonders. Briefly, Hux considers refuting his mother’s words, because he’s irritated that she doesn’t see through it, that she can’t just look at her son and see how lonely he really is. How all of this will be over in a few days and he’ll go back to one awkward date a year and jacking off his shower once a week. 

“I don’t feel fortunate right now,” Hux admits, instead. “My father is dead, and my brother hates me.”

“That’s not true,” Aislain sighs. “Donnie had a hard time when you left because he idolized you. You hung the moon, as far as he was concerned. He missed you, and after a while he started to believe you didn’t come home very much because of him. He was too young to understand anything else.” 

“Great,” Hux growls, lifting the Jack Daniels to his lips again. “More guilt to bear.”

“That isn’t why I came out here,” his mother says. “You may not need him, but Donnie needs you. Talk to him, please?”

Hux doesn’t look at her, but he nods. He’s not sure he means it, but it’s what she wants. His mother pats his back softly, kisses his stubbled cheek, and then her footsteps are trailing away back down the porch. Another car pulls into the driveway, and Hux recognizes one of his old high school teachers. Brendol had coached softball with him.

Ben replaces his mother then, and slips two arms around Hux’s waist. Hux tenses for a fraction of a second, feeling bitter and contrary, but Ben is a warm cocoon sheltering him from this nightmare. Relaxing against him, Hux closes his eyes, head tilted back against his shoulder. 

“We’d better be careful,” Hux mutters. “Or the public displays of affection police will cite us for disrespect.” 

Ben laughs, pressing his lips against Hux’s jaw in a not-quite-kiss. “He apologized after you walked out.” 

Hux snorts. “Little too late for that.” 

“Maybe you should talk to him, baby.”

Hux’s eyes widen at that, heart skipping a beat. He wants to point out the slip, if that is what it had been, but he’s afraid to hear it’s just part of some internal script to get Ben immersed in his role of fiancé. Regardless, it makes Hux feel warm all over in a completely unexpected way and it takes him a long moment to apply his focus to the other words Ben had spoken.

“I wouldn’t call any of what just went on a conversation,” Hux insists. “I don’t see the point of continuing it.” 

Ben’s arms tighten around him, and Hux thinks he could easily stay this way forever. “I think he’s just hurt. He told me he felt guilty because one of his first thoughts when he’d heard your father died was that he’d get to see you. And it hasn’t, um… gone like he hoped.”

“I don’t know what he expected.” Hux takes another swallow of bourbon, starting to feel pleasantly woozy. He feels Ben shrug.

“I don’t know either. And I don’t know what happened with you guys. But earlier today you told me not to do what you did. Not to leave things unspoken, I guess. You can’t fix things with your dad, but maybe you can with your brother.”

Hux opens his mouth to argue, but then realizes Ben is right. He sighs instead. “I’ll try.” He shifts in Ben’s arms, regaining his balance, and Ben lets go of him. Hux takes his hand and walks back to the front door. 

By now, the house is milling with people: relatives, friends of the family, people Hux does not recognize, but who he stops and greets, thanks for their well-wishes and support, answers their questions.  _ Yes, I’m holding up, thank you. Yes, it looks like I am getting married. Yes, I wish my father could be here to see it too.  _ Hux clings to Ben’s hand in the entire time, thankful for his solid, sure grip. 

There’s music playing quietly in the drawing room where his father is reposed in his burnished mahogany casket. Hux finds Donnie sitting alone beneath the west window, which is open to the night to permit Brendol’s soul to leave when it is ready to depart. His brother is leaning forward, elbows on his knees and head bowed. The bottle of gin sits beside his foot, but doesn’t appear any less depleted than it had been in the kitchen. 

Giving Ben a grateful look, Hux lets go of his hand and moves toward his brother. Donnie glances up as Hux settles, and his eyes take on a hopeful roundness that inspires both tenderness and anxiety in Hux’s chest. 

“Sorry for making out with Ben in the kitchen,” Hux begins, having no idea how one begins this sort of conversation. 

Domhnall smiles, which is not the reaction Hux had expected. “Sorry for biting your head off about it. I just wanted you to spend time with me.”

“Well, that isn’t the way to go about it,” Hux admonishes, more sharply then he means to, which makes Donnie’s face fall some. “But I’m here now. Maybe … maybe you can come up to Chicago or something. I don’t really like Georgia.” 

Donnie sits back in the chair, scanning the room and its occupants. People are mingling in small clusters, and Hux can hear his old piano instructor telling a snippet of a story about Brendol liking Mozart. When Domhnall’s eyes return to Hux, his brother says: “Is that why you hardly ever visited?”

“Yes. It had nothing to do with you.”

Donnie doesn’t look very sure. Hux sees Ben talking to his mother, and has a sudden overwhelming need for every visit with his family in the future to include Ben. Hux thinks maybe he can do this, maybe he can be a good son or a good brother or someday uncle, as long as he has Ben to keep him from drowning in this morass of emotions.

“I could have written emails, or called more, I know,” Hux admits, turning his gaze back to Domhnall. “I’ll fix that. In the future.”

“It would mean a lot to me,” Donnie says softly, reaching out and putting a tentative hand on Hux’s shoulder. 

Hux had almost forgotten how affectionate people are in the south, how a touch or a hug is natural, even among near strangers. Then it occurs to him that almost the minute he’d set foot in this house, he’d found it so easy to display such sentiment to Ben. Flashes of memory show him mornings that his mother had kissed his cheek when he’d come down for breakfast, when his father had given him great, bearded bear hugs from behind that squashed the air out of his lungs, Donnie had wrapped skinny arms around Hux’s waist. This is something that Hux had left behind when he escaped his hometown. Something he’s become used to being without, and he realizes suddenly he wants it back. 

“It’ll mean a lot to me, too, kid,” Hux says, giving Donnie perhaps the first genuine smile that Hux has mustered for him since this morning.

His brother smiles back, squeezes his shoulder. Hux reaches over and ruffles Donnie’s hair, making him duck. 

“How do we put this back together?” Hux muses aloud, looking at the casket which seems massive, intimidating, final.

Donnie sighs. “One piece at a time, big brother.”

 

* * *

 

Ben would never say it to Hux, especially not today, but funerals make him feel almost physically ill. 

They are in a small cemetery, bulbous dark clouds barely holding back the rain. There are perhaps fifty people surrounding the burial site, and even the cascades of flowers do nothing to brighten the sea of black upon the dismal landscape. 

Ben can hear the macabre tenor of his own thoughts, and he scrapes a fingernail against the arm of his suit jacket, which is damp in the clinging humidity. Beneath the jacket are six skulls, incorporated into the tattooed design which flows from his neck to his wrist. Each skull is a brother in arms he’d lost, a friend, a funeral. A graphic memory of death.

He does his best to suppress it, removing his hand from his arm and shoving it in his pocket. The last thing Hux needs is for Ben to have a panic attack at his father’s funeral. 

Ben is tired, and that makes everything more raw. It always does, which is why he does his best to stick to a rigid sleep schedule. This trip, however, has done away almost completely with any semblance of routine. Last night, for instance, they’d sat awake in the drawing room keeping vigil over Brendol’s body until after three in the morning, when the last mourners had finally drifted home. They’d gone upstairs afterward and Hux had passed out soundly, emotionally exhausted and more than a little drunk. Ben had been restless, unable to put the strange evolution of his relationship with Hux out of his mind. 

Ben glances at him now, finding him rather desperately beautiful in his well-tailored black suit and shades. Hux doesn’t need the glasses with this sunless weather, but Ben suspects he’s trying to hide either the red-rimmed eyes, his emotional state, or both. Moments from the last several days insist on replaying in Ben’s mind, a welcome distraction if a confusing one - holding hands in a treehouse like kids, that whiskey-flavored kiss in Hux’s bedroom and the weight of Hux in his lap, the very real kiss Ben had given him in the kitchen. He wonders if Hux had only returned it as part of the ruse of their engagement, or if it was just something physical for him. He thinks of Hux’s hands, trying to slip beneath Ben’s pants, and how he’d said he  _ needed this _ . What did he need? Just mindless sex, to take his mind off the fact that he’d come home to bury his father? 

Ben looks away, taking a deep breath. Perhaps this isn’t the best means of distraction after all. Instead, he spends the next half hour cataloging the different features of the landscape, and formulating an infiltration and exfiltration strategy from ground and air, to keep from having to listen to the various litanies of sorrow and remembrance. It's too easy for that to turn into more unpleasant memories.

Hux declines to say anything, unlike the rest of his family, and Ben suspects he’s shared all the feelings about it that he plans to process aloud. That is something that Ben is able to easily relate with. While Phasma had bullied him into therapy to deal with some of the more intense issues that Ben has, he’s still never talked to anyone about the people he’d lost. It doesn’t help. It’s like scraping off a scab, so that it can never scar over.

The service concludes, and gradually people begin to drift away. The afternoon is briefly punctuated by a staccato of car doors closing and voices, lowered in respect. Thunder sounds again, deep and ominous, and a wind picks up, rifling through Ben’s hair. The air smells like rain, and green things, and freshly tilled earth. 

Hux makes no move to leave, even when his mother pauses beside him to whisper about the weather and the funeral reception. He just nods, and kisses her cheek. Donnie takes her to the car, leaving Hux with a touch to his arm. 

Not long after Hux’s family drives away, the clouds finally break, unleashing a torrent of rain. Still, Hux stands as unmoving as a stone, eyes fixed behind his water-stained sunglasses, and he and Ben are thoroughly soaked in little time. By the time Ben thinks of objecting, it doesn’t matter anymore, so he just stands with Hux, hoping that his presence will help him through whatever he’s feeling. All Ben does is reach out to take Hux’s hand, and is rewarded with a squeeze.

They remain alone in the cemetery, statues in the downpour, for perhaps five minutes, though it seems like much longer. Finally, a sigh shudders through Hux’s shoulders, and he pulls off the sunglasses with his free hand, turning his face up to the sky. Closing his eyes, he lets the rain stream across his features.

Finally, he looks at Ben, water clinging in beads to translucent eyelashes. Hux blinks, swiping it away. “I’m ready to go.” 

There’s an air of finality in the statement, like Hux has come to a peace with himself, and Ben squeezes his hand and nods. They’d ridden with Hux’s family, and now there are no cars left behind, and so they walk, holding hands in the rain, the mile and a half back to Hux’s house. Hux does not speak, and Ben doesn’t press him.

By the time they reach the front porch, Ben is drenched to his core. He’d shed his suit jacket, carrying it slung over his shoulder, and the hems of his pants and his shoes are stained red-brown with mud splatter. 

Hux toes off his own shoes just inside the door, and Ben does likewise. Hux walks up the stairs, dripping and in a daze. Aislain intercepts Ben at the foot of the stairs, asking if Hux is ok, and Ben assures her that he’ll be fine. In time, Ben is sure he will be. 

When Ben makes it to the second floor, Hux is standing in the center of their room on the rug, peeling away his socks. He looks at Ben, red hair plastered to his forehead, two days growth of red fuzz shadowing his pale cheeks. He straightens, socks and jacket tossed aside with less care than Hux usually shows, and starts on the buttons of his dress shirt. Ben shuts the door. 

As it clicks closed, Hux is on the third button, and Ben can’t help that his gaze is drawn to the pale expanse of skin, the slender throat, the way seeing his dog tags against Hux’s chest makes him feel out of control in the best possible way. He’d given away something he swore he’d never take off, something that represented far more to him than any ring he might buy at a jeweler. Even he doesn’t know for sure what that means, but he knows without a doubt that it’s not a casual thing between friends. 

Hux is on the last of his buttons, and he shrugs his shoulders and lets the shirt fall to the floor as he walks toward Ben, and before Ben can react, mesmerized, Hux puts hands on either side of Ben’s face and kisses him. 

Ben brings his hands to Hux’s slender wrists, but only holds them, unable to push him away. Hux is trembling, and Ben realizes suddenly that soaking wet inside the air conditioned house, it’s actually fairly cold. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” Hux murmurs against his mouth, voice slightly dreamlike, as though he’s not quite present. “Come with me.”

Ben lets go of Hux’s wrists in surprise. “Hux. There’s the reception.” It’s the first excuse he can think of. 

“I don’t care about the reception right now,” Hux responds, fingers gliding down Ben’s throat, over the collar of his shirt, where he thumbs open a button. Then another, before Ben’s mind catches up with his irrefutable and quite sudden lust at the idea of Hux’s naked body against his in the shower.

“Hux, we shouldn’t… you just …” Ben tries to back away, again catching at Hux’s wrist, but Hux flicks him away, tugs him back by the fabric of his shirt. 

“I’m not mad with grief, Ben Solo. I want to take a hot shower, and not be alone. I don’t need a white knight.” 

Ben flushes at that, but stops trying to get away as Hux resumes unbuttoning his shirt. 

Hux’s eyes flick up, gaze resting on his face for a moment. “But I appreciate you being possibly the most noble person I’ve ever met.” 

The compliment would have held more weight in Ben’s perception had he not seemingly lost all will-power to refuse his animal instincts. If he is so noble, why is he allowing his roommate, who probably isn’t the best judge of his own state of mind at the moment, to unzip his pants? Ben tries to rally, to put a stop to what could very well be a terrible decision, but then Hux’s thumb trails in a soft caress over his hip bone, along the crease of his thigh, teasing at the hair between his legs as Hux pushes his boxers down with more care than necessary. Rational thought becomes background noise.

Ben gropes for Hux, fingers closing on one narrow hip, pulling Hux flush against him. Hux’s lean body is clammy, and he’s shaking, trying to hold himself against Ben while at the same time kicking his own pants off. Ben hooks a thumb over the waistband of Hux’s red briefs (he’ll be amused by that later) and helps him, and then they are naked.

Hux pulls away, breaking their kiss, and turns for the bathroom, throwing Ben a look over his shoulder to ensure that he’s following. Belatedly, Ben realizes he still has socks on, so he pauses to tug them off. He hears the shower starting, and now that Hux’s hands aren’t on him, rational consideration of his circumstances tries to assert itself.  _ Quit thinking with your dick, Ben. You're in a position to protect him from doing something he'll regret.   _

“Ben.” Hux is in the doorway of the bathroom, half hidden by the frame.  It's the first time that Ben has actually fully looked at him since they'd undressed. Hux's legs are long and shapely, freckles dusting his thighs. The hair between his legs is carefully groomed, darker red than what’s on top, and his cock is half-hard, flushed pink against his thigh. 

“There are better alternatives to admiring the view from over there,” Hux purrs, and Ben’s resolve flickers and goes out. Ben crosses the few feet between them, and Hux backs into the bathroom, finally stepping into the shower when he seems convinced that Ben will follow. 

The water is hot, immediately threading through Ben’s muscles and easing the tension. He tugs the shower curtain closed. Hux is facing away from him, toward the back wall, and rather than turn around, he steps backward, easing himself into Ben’s willing embrace. Hux rests his hands on Ben’s forearms where they enclose his torso, and for a moment, Ben thinks that perhaps companionship is all Hux truly wants. Ben merely rests his cheek against Hux’s head, and lets the warm water stream over them, eyes closed. 

Hux is content to stand there for several minutes, just being held, and then he shifts one hand back to touch Ben’s thigh. Fingers slide along his lines, over the muscles of his thigh, his hip, the swell of his ass. They find purchase there, digging into Ben’s flesh to pull him forward, closer, just as Hux rocks his hips back.

Ben gasps, skin pricking with a flood of endorphins, cock responding immediately. It thickens between them, trapped where Hux is pressing back against him, and Ben has a sudden vision of it between Hux’s soap-slicked thighs, while Ben brings him off with a hand. As though reading his mind, Hux takes Ben’s wrist, pushing his palm down his flat belly. Ben groans into Hux’s neck as his fingers graze Hux’s cock, fully hard now, and Hux cries out when Ben wraps his hand around it.

Ben strokes him languidly, savoring the silken feel of him, and Hux shudders, lifting his hand now to tangle fingers in Ben’s hair. Turning his head, Hux kisses him, sucking roughly at his bottom lip, breaking off with hitched breath when Ben rubs a thumb into Hux’s leaking slit.

“Fuck, Ben,” he rasps. “I want you.”

Ben kisses him hungrily, his own cock so hard it borders on painful, every arch of Hux’s back and roll of his hips sending a ripple of ecstasy through his belly, down his inner thighs. The friction mounts as Hux’s own movements grow more feverish, setting the pace as he works himself in Ben’s palm. The closer Ben gets to release, the more barriers seem to dissolve, until he growls Hux’s name against his lips, the words  _ I love you _ on his tongue. Before he can commit himself to it, Hux jerks, keening open-mouthed as he comes over Ben’s fingers, hips stuttering. The hand in Ben’s hair clenches, tugging, and that burst of delicious pain sends Ben over the edge. Everything turns to static, time standing still as he pulses onto Hux’s thighs. 

It’s a long moment before either of them moves. Hux’s fingers gradually go limp in Ben’s hair, before dropping away entirely. Ben is still holding him loosely, knees weak and head muzzy, and Hux turns in his arms. Resting his forehead against Ben’s, his eyes are bright blue-green, yet another color Ben has never seen and imagines might be just for him. Hux looks down before he speaks.

“I want this to be real,” he says, sounding almost sad, as though he doesn’t believe that it can be. 

Ben shifts, kissing Hux’s cheekbone. “Three cakes at our wedding, live doves, a horse-drawn carriage?”

Hux buries his face in Ben’s neck and laughs, arms around his back. “Okay. Maybe not with the horse-drawn carriage. And probably not the live doves. But definitely the three cakes.” 

Ben holds him, twining one finger through the silver chain around Hux’s neck. “We haven’t even gone on a date, yet.”

Hux kisses his neck. “Are you asking me out?”

Ben laughs. “We’ve gone about this all backwards, haven’t we? Engagement, pseudo shower-sex, and then a date?”

“I like to keep things interesting,” Hux murmurs, still not looking at him. Hux is holding on to him more tightly than he needs to be, and Ben realizes that he’s waiting for an answer, afraid of rejection.

“It is real, Hux,” Ben says softly. “Everything I feel for you is real.”

Hux says nothing for a moment, then straightens, searching Ben’s eyes. “I don’t want to waste any more time not saying things…” Hux says, then pauses.

When he doesn’t continue immediately, Ben nods at the sentiment, realizing he should follow his own advice. “I don’t either Hux. I…” 

“I love you,” Hux blurts. “I meant what I said in the kitchen. I’ve loved you since the first day I met you.”

Ben is too stunned to speak for a moment, and Hux’s cheeks color when Ben doesn’t respond immediately. 

Hux’s face then takes on a serious cast, his vulnerability shuttered. “Of course, I fully understand if you don’t return that sentiment. We can just leave it at this, and go back to…”

“Hux, stop,” Ben says, and Hux closes his mouth, brows pinched over his nose. Ben leans in, presses a kiss to the crease on Hux’s forehead, then one to his lips. 

“We can’t go back,” Ben says. “And I don’t want to.”


	6. For Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for suicide mention.
> 
> This chapter is NSFW.

_We can’t go back. And I don’t want to._

Ever since stepping out of the shower with Ben, it feels as though the world has shifted, as though years of cloud cover have rolled away to reveal the horizon and a destination upon it.

Hux has still not come back to Earth since baring his soul, and when he glances at Ben, he feels dizzy, like he’s feeling the shock of speaking that secret thing all over again. The entire experience of coming home, of interacting with his family in such a context and of burying his father, had all culminated in a pinpoint moment of perspective in the most unlikely place. Standing at Brendol’s graveside, Hux had not been contemplating the finality of death or the pain of his own grief, but the beauty of being loved. It made him realize how empty his own world had become with everything that he shirked in bitterness or avoided in fear. He made a silent promise to the ghost of his father as the rain poured over him in that cemetery that he would honor his memory not with regret, but by living. Truly living.

It was on the walk back to the house, holding Ben’s hand in the rain, that Hux realized the first step he had to take on that path. There had been a reason Hux had not been interested in dating anyone since he’d known Ben, but one he’d been afraid to admit to himself. Here, scoured to the core, everything is clear to him.

And he doesn’t want to go back either.

Ben is in the process of blow-drying his hair before they go back down to the reception, having not bothered to dress yet. Hux himself is half clothed, but is in no hurry. Slipping back into the bathroom, he curls an arm around Ben’s waist from behind, pressing his face to the heated skin between his shoulder blades. The blow-dryer shuts off a second later, and a hand caresses Hux’s forearm briefly before tucking beneath it, peeling it away, and then spinning Hux around so that their positions are reversed, Hux’s back to the sink. One fluid motion sees Hux lifted off the floor and deposited on the edge of the counter.

Hux purrs as Ben nuzzles his neck. He wraps his legs around Ben’s waist, holding him close, feeling his own cock starting to fill at being picked up like he weighs nothing. The thought that he doesn’t have to suppress his attraction anymore fans his arousal. “We could just spend the rest of the day in bed. I’m okay with that.”

Ben’s tongue caresses the pulse point in Hux’s throat, and he trails unhurried kisses up Hux’s neck to his ear. “The entire house would hear us, if they haven’t already.”

Hux is sure he hadn’t been _that_ loud in the shower, but he colors nonetheless at the thought of his mother hearing him climax. “You could gag me, to keep me quiet.”

Ben pulls back, laughing, and looks at him with sparkling dark eyes. “I had a feeling you were a little bit of a freak.”

 _A freak?_ It intrigues Hux that Ben has contemplated his bedroom style and come to this particular conclusion. He’ll have to explore that further. Leaning forward, he bites Ben’s bottom lip, threading fingers through his soft brown hair. “I am deliciously vanilla.”

“Mmmhm,” Ben grunts, the sound muffled in a kiss.

Hux loses himself in it for a moment, heart fluttering at the intoxicating feel of Ben’s arms around him, naked body against his. He has to force himself to pull back. _They have time. A lifetime, maybe._

“We should probably go downstairs,” Hux admits reluctantly, fingers trailing with admiration over the shapely muscles of Ben’s stomach. He fully intends to claim all this new territory and thoroughly map it.

Ben smirks at him as though reading his mind, then leans in to kiss him one last time before moving to the bedroom to dress. Hux slips off the counter, wondering how long they’ve been up here. Oddly, it feels like days, rather than what can’t amount to much more than an hour. Enough time for something broken to reform, or for something new to rise from ashes. Hux caresses the metal shape of Ben’s dog tags, the action already becoming a sort of mantra for him. Even when pulling a shirt on over them, he still feels their impression, like a tether to a version of reality that might otherwise seem no more than a dream.

No one looks at them strangely when they finally descend to Brendol’s reception; it’s the opposite, really, with glances of empathy and open friendliness. Hux finds himself forced to wonder if that is how it’s been all along in this town, and he’d just been too bogged down in his own mire to see it. It’s a hopeful thought, and not really like him to have it, but perhaps this is Ben’s influence over him. Or love.

 _Or it could be that he’s very quickly becoming a horrible sap_ , Hux thinks to himself as he takes a plate from the stack on the kitchen counter. He hands it off to Ben and then takes another one. The island in the center of the kitchen and most of the counter space is filled to bursting with an array of dishes, their colors and designs denoting various households of origin.

Nudging Ben with his shoulder, Hux indicates the display with a tilt of his chin. “I forgot how much Southerners look to casseroles for comfort.”

Ben snorts in amusement and smiles at him. “You should see what happens when you blend a Jewish and Italian family.”

Hux ladles something onto his plate that appears to be chicken tettrazini. “I would like to see that. We should go visit.”

The smile drops from Ben’s lips at that, and he pauses while fishing meatballs out of a sauce with a pair of tongs. Hux realizes his enthusiasm to single-handedly reunite Ben with his estranged family is perhaps not well-received just yet.

“I mean,” Hux goes on, trying to remove some of the weight from the suggestion, “we have to tell them we’re engaged. Right?”

Ben gives him a sharp glance, and the utensil in his hand slips back toward the blue crockery dish, clacking against the ceramic edge. The expression on his face is probably as close to panicked as Hux has ever seen him, but it’s just a passing cloud, cleared away immediately by Ben’s practiced self-control.

“We do,” he agrees, to Hux’s surprise, who is once again lamenting the fact that he can’t keep his foot out of his mouth around Ben.

This throws Hux into a state of confusion that he immediately wants to address with almost as much enthusiasm as he wishes never to address it at all. He and Ben share a heavy, awkward glance, which is (thankfully?) interrupted by Hux’s aunt Jo sweeping into the kitchen. She’s wearing a cheerful white and red apron with an ostentatious rooster across the bodice and innumerable little embroidered hens on the skirt. It’s funny looking, draped over her rather severe black ensemble from the funeral.

“Armie!” she says, going past them to the stove, and Hux sighs shortly before giving her a genuine smile. He always liked his Aunt Jo. His mother’s sister, she had been the first adult Hux had told of his realization that he didn’t care for girls the way boys were supposed to. She’d been quite matter of fact about the whole thing, and had been adamant that Hux wasn’t broken, or going to hell.

Jo is pulling the stove open, reaching in with a large red oven-mitt to take out a huge cast iron skillet filled with buttery yellow cornbread. “I don’t know why your mother thinks we need all this dang cornbread, but here it is.” She sets the skillet on the stove with a _thunk_ and pops the oven closed. She turns the oven off and then leans against it, looking at Hux, and then Ben. Her smile is broad, eyes twinkling.

“This is …” Hux begins, and then reality hits him. Though he’s spent the past two days introducing Ben as his fiancé to various relations, that had all come before the conversation in the shower. Now? What are they?

“Your knight in shining armor?” Aunt Jo croons with laughter in her voice, making Hux color with embarrassment.

“Yes,” he murmurs, supposing it’s pretty much true. That’s what Aunt Jo had always called the mysterious stranger that she promised Hux he’d meet someday, when was despairing of being alone forever as dramatically as only a teenager could.

Jo steps in and balances fully on her toes to give the much taller Ben a kiss on his cheek, fingers framing his face. “I sure am glad you found him,” she tells Ben, rather than Hux.

Ben seems amused, and Hux is glad that this at least has taken the focus off the question of Hux meeting Ben’s family.

They take their food out onto the back porch, despite the fact that the air is thick with humidity and mosquitos are a constant, buzzing nuisance. Ben drags a chair close to Hux and sits beside him while they navigate their plates. They are alone out here for the moment, which is what Hux had wanted. He would go in soon and socialize, thank everyone for coming; the atmosphere is somewhat cleansed now that his father is laid to rest. There’s a lingering question on his mind, though, and he doesn’t want to continue answering questions about Ben with lies.

Ben is picking at a piece of cornbread, which he’s apparently never eaten before, and he breaks it in half to eat the darker, crisper bottom first - the part liberally slathered with butter, courtesy of Hux. Hux laughs, seeing it.

“You’re a southerner at heart,” he tells Ben, earning himself a curious look.

“I had no idea there were this many kinds of casseroles,” Ben responds after he sets the cornbread aside. He stirs green beans with his fork. “What’s in this?”

Hux looks. “Cream of mushroom soup. Bacon. Fried onion.”

Ben frowns, tastes a bite. “How does everyone down here not die of heart disease? Everything has butter and bacon in it.” He glances sharply at Hux. “Sorry. Your dad, I mean…”

Hux shrugs. “I doubt it was the cholesterol that did him in,” he responds, though he’s not really sure. There’d been no autopsy; his mother had flatly refused. Hux couldn’t blame her.

They eat in silence for a few moments, until Hux finally rests his plate against his knee and clears his throat. “I think we should talk,” he says.

Ben’s expression at that is dubious. “I’ve never had a good conversation that started what way.”

Hux registers the wariness in Ben’s tone, the look of immediate concern on his face, and feels a pang in his chest that Ben would be so quick to worry. “It’s nothing bad. I just…” _I  just am really bad at talking about feelings, damn it_. “I think we just kind of established something upstairs, right?”

“I thought so.” Ben sets his own plate aside. “Didn’t we?”

Hux nods, staring out across the steaming yard instead of facing Ben. “What is that going to be when we get home?”

Ben is silent for a moment. “What do you want it to be?”

 _Why can’t Ben just tell him, and make this easier?_ “I am thinking about telling my family that I lied about being engaged,” Hux begins, going somewhere with the train of thought but arrested when he sees Ben slump back in his chair with a sigh. “No, that’s not what I mean. It _is_ what I mean but not…fucking hell.” Hux puts his plate down on the porch with a clatter and looks at Ben, checking the door for signs of anyone about to come through it and overhear.

“I said I want it to be real, and I don’t want you to have to lie to people. I’m not sure that’s the best way to start something?” He leaves that open ended for Ben to answer.

“Don’t tell anyone.” Ben’s answer is soft, but immediate. “I like our story just like it is. Maybe after…maybe someday it’ll make for something to talk about that we can laugh over, but not now.”

Hux is surprised at this, but pleased. He hadn’t wanted to tell anyone, at all, but he felt like he should offer. “Okay. But you know my mother will probably want to keep in touch with you now. My brother might come up to visit…”

Ben smirks at him. “We’ve fooled them all so far. Must be a pretty convincing performance.”

Hux’s cheeks heat a little at that, unable not to recall his own performance in the bedroom earlier. “So, fake fiancés going forward, then?”

“For now.”

Hux opens his mouth to ask what Ben means by that, but is interrupted by the back door opening. Donnie, Holly, and Hux’s cousin Sabrina come through, and there’s no more time to discuss their secret. It doesn’t stop Hux from contemplating it, however, and from obsessively turning over the phrase _for now_ in his mind.

 

 

The reception lasts into mid-evening, and both Hux and Ben do an admirable job holding up under the curious, well-meaning scrutiny of Hux’s relations. Hux finds himself content to keep one arm looped through Ben’s for most of the night and allow him to lead the conversations; he’s quite engaging on an interpersonal level, and his mood is infectiously buoyant.

There are many questions for Ben, especially concerning his family, and while Hux had, at first, tried to steer the conversation away from that subject, Ben had not avoided it. Thus by the end of the evening, Hux knows that Ben’s father flies commercial airliners and his mother is an environmental lobbyist. Hux also learns that Ben wants one of their three cakes at their wedding to be in the shape of an armadillo, with a red velvet interior; Hux finds this appalling but his mother thinks it’s hilarious, and that doesn’t bode well for Hux’s opinion on the matter should the event ever truly arise.

He learns that Ben plays guitar and was in a punk band in high school, which he describes to his curious older family as ‘angry kids yelling about stuff to music.’ It earns him some sage nods while Hux snickers. He finds out Ben used to have a dog and has wanted to get another one for a while, and Hux resolves to make that happen despite the fact that he is not a fan.

By the end of the evening, there isn’t a soul in Hux’s family circle that doesn’t seem to adore Ben, and Hux thinks he might be proportionately more in love with him. He’s so overwhelmed by it, in fact, that by the time they say their goodnights and go upstairs to bed, Hux is beginning to feel out of his league.

After getting ready for sleep, Hux sinks down onto the edge of the mattress, heart in his throat, and tells himself it’s silly to be nervous about the simple act of going to bed. He glances out the window, seeing that the dismal weather has finally cleared, and a fat, pale moon hangs in a star-sprinkled, deep navy sky.

“I wish we could see the stars like this at home,” Hux comments, surprised to hear himself say it. He hardly ever looked up at home, or thought about it.

He feels the mattress dip, Ben sitting down behind him. “We…my family…has a cabin in Upstate New York. No lights around for miles. You can see a million stars.”

Hux turns to look at Ben, stretched out now on his side. Hux’s hands feel clammy, his chest tight, and he just barely manages not to flinch when Ben reaches out and brushes fingers over his side. They hook around his waist, applying the barest amount of suggestive pressure. _Come here_ , they say.

Hux doesn’t know what he’s nervous about, but already the bold creature oozing seduction he’d been earlier that afternoon seems like a different man. Hux from a parallel universe, where he was actually confident in his mesmerizing wiles. He feels out of his depth, like he’s somehow spent the summer tricking the most popular kid in school into liking him with a clever act that will be discovered as soon as classes start up again. As soon as they are back in Chicago, perspective will strike, and Ben will realize how much better he can do than a skinny, socially awkward software engineer who hasn’t had sex in…a really fucking long time and totally has no idea what the fuck he is doing _and what has he gotten into here how does this even work_ …

“Hux.” Ben’s voice breaks into his panicked inner dialogue. “You okay?”

Hux lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and forces himself to slide down beneath the covers. He instinctively lies facing away from Ben, shielding himself from the source of his ridiculous anxiety, then rethinks that and turns onto his back, lying stiffly and board-like, which is probably not much better. “Yeah. I’m okay,” he lies weakly.

Ben’s hand is still resting on his waist, and shifts minutely as though Ben intends to pull him close, but then stops. Hux turns his head on the pillow and looks at him, and sees that Ben has not failed to register his sudden dissonance. A sharp pain twinges through Hux’s chest, the fact that he needs to somehow explain himself almost as uncomfortable as the anxiety itself.

“Tell me about the cabin,” he says instead, because diversion is always the more preferable tactic.

Ben leaves his hand where it is, a gentle pressure on Hux’s belly that is more comforting than alarming, and regards Hux silently for a moment. Then his eyes turn toward the window, as if seeking memories. “It’s in the Adirondacks, near a lake. Miles of forest around it, with only one road in. It belonged to my grandfather…my mother’s father. He retired there after my grandmother passed away, when my mom and uncle were still kids. One of my parents used to drive me up every summer and let me stay the whole break, even if they didn’t stay too. Which they usually didn’t.”

Hux is starting to relax, lulled by the wistful tone of Ben’s voice, and gingerly, Hux rolls over to face him. “You liked your grandfather?”

Ben’s gaze shifts from the window to glance at Hux, then back. “Yeah. I was closer to him than anyone in my family.” He smiles, a touch sad. “He used to take me out on his boat, and we’d just sit, for hours. He told me meditating with nature was supposed to soothe the spirit. I’m not sure it ever did for him though. He killed himself when I was twelve.”

Hux’s heart sinks, and he moves his hand up to Ben’s arm, squeezing softly. “Jesus, Ben. I’m so sorry…”

Ben twines his arm fully around Hux’s waist now, and shifts closer to him, nuzzling his face into Hux’s hair and sighing, warm against his scalp. Hux slides his arm around Ben as well, hand on his back, stroking it soothingly. Hux isn’t sure he’s ever been good at comforting others, but does his best to imitate those who have comforted him.

“Anyway,” Ben says into his hair, “he left the cabin to me. Though I haven’t been up there in years. Too many memories.”

“They’re inconvenient, aren’t they? Memories,” Hux murmurs, pressing his face to Ben’s shoulder.

“Some of them,” Ben agrees, kissing Hux’s head. “Not all.”

The anxiety slowly drains out of Hux as they simply hold each other, and Hux finds that it is much easier to let go of what plagues him when allowing himself to be consumed with feelings for someone else. He wants to absorb everything from Ben that’s ever caused him pain, rid him of it, but he has a feeling that he’s just scratched the surface.

Turning his face up, Hux brushes his nose against the underside of Ben’s jaw. Ben shifts, looks down, and Hux kisses him. He isn’t prepared for how fully Ben responds, arm tight across Hux’s lower back and pulling him closer, tongue parting his lips with a low, hungry sound. It sends endorphins soaring through Hux’s bloodstream, Ben’s thigh pressing between his making his breath hitch.

Ben’s hand wanders down Hux’s back, tucking beneath the t-shirt Hux had modestly worn to bed. Fingers drag against his back, digging hard into the muscle, and Hux arches toward Ben with a low sound that’s almost embarrassingly needy. He would laugh at himself, but Ben’s tongue is in his mouth, and then Ben’s hand is below the waistband of his pajama pants, caressing the swell of his ass, and _fuck_ …

Hux pulls back from the kiss, starts to speak, but Ben chases his lips, and he’s lost again for a moment in the taste and the heat of him. Hux’s heart is thundering in his ears again, though not with anxiety this time, and he’s painfully hard. It’s shameful, how easy it is for him to get there. He tangles a hand in Ben’s hair, holds tightly when Ben’s lips move to his neck, growls softly when he feels teeth.

Kisses trail down his throat, nestling in the hollow between his collarbones as Ben pushes Hux’s shirt up to his chest. Then his lips are on Hux’s sternum, a hot tongue flicks over his nipple and makes him yelp like a wanton whore. As Ben’s lips move further still, descending along an evident path across the smooth expanse of Hux’s belly, Hux tries to force himself to tell him to stop, that he doesn’t have to do this, that it should be the other way around and Hux should be doing this for him, but then _ahhhh god…_

His pants are around his hips now, and Ben’s mouth is hot and wet around his cock, and he manages to take him so deeply that Hux’s eyes roll back in his head and he has to bite hard at a fist to keep from crying out and waking the entire house. The fingers of his other hand are probably too tight in Ben’s hair, but he doesn’t complain, tongue busy with Hux’s flush-pink shaft. He’s…humming, like a pleased purr, and one big hand is holding Hux in place at his waist, one thumb tracing the sensitive hip bone in rhythm with the slide of lips up, down, again and again. Hux is writhing, unable to think coherent thoughts, a slave to the needs of his body and the way Ben seems to have some mystical ability to do everything _exactly fucking right_.

Hux comes without managing a warning beyond a sudden desperate fist tightening in Ben’s hair, and Ben reacts with only a muffled sound and a thumb digging into Hux’s hip sharply. Hux can feel his throat working, then his tongue on the quickly over-sensitive shaft makes Hux tremble, and Ben slowly draws off.

He returns to Hux’s lips the same way he’d left them, with languid kisses up the length of his body. Hux takes his own hand away from his mouth, spit-slick with the reddish impression of teeth in the flesh, and he tastes himself on Ben’s tongue when they kiss again. He suddenly doesn’t care if the entire state of Georgia hears them.

“Ben,” he rasps, trying to get a leg around him, impeded by the pants that are half-on. “Fuck me. I want it.”

Ben smiles against his lips, reaches down and grabs the waistband of Hux’s pants and stops Hux from struggling out of them. “Not here,” he says.

Hux’s brows draw together, too high after his climax to think rationally. “It’s fine,” he insists. “No one will hear us.”

Collapsing partly on top of him, Ben vibrates with soft laughter. “Do you have some lube from your teenage years squirrelled away somewhere? Condoms?”

Hux shifts, begins to process the situation. Part of him wants to say _to hell with condoms_ , but he’s not keen on there being a conversation about sexual history or STD screenings at this exact moment. “Okay, the lube thing is an issue.”

Ben strokes a hand through Hux’s hair, coaxing him in for another kiss. “I don’t want to have to be quiet about it, either,” he murmurs, making Hux shiver.

“I guess you have a point,” Hux concedes, though not without a measure of disappointment. “Though I am returning the favor.” He squirms beneath Ben’s weight, but Ben doesn’t move.

“It’s okay,” Ben tells him. “You don’t have to.”

Hux goes limp in surprise and a slight bit of annoyance. “I’ll have you know I’m rather adept at giving head,” he snaps.

Ben laughs, peers up at him from where he’s lying against Hux’s chest. His eyes are dark and glitter in the moonlight filtering in through the window. “I believe you.”

Hux frowns. “So, you don’t like guys?”

“Hux.”

“What? I’m aware I don’t have to do anything. But I want to.” He gets a hand on Ben’s shoulder and pushes him, and this time his heavy weight shifts obligingly over to his back. Hux shimmies back into his pants and then straddles Ben’s hips, elbows to either side of his head, noses touching.

“You’re not used to people doing things for you, are you?” Hux is fairly sure of this observation, but Ben only shrugs in response. “Have you ever had a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?”

Ben’s brow furrows. “There have been…people. In the past.” His hands move to Hux’s thighs, stroking gently up to his hips. Hux is struck, not for the first time over the last few days, by how remarkable it is that Ben, a trained killer, can be so terribly gentle.

“People. Someone that loved you?” Hux bites his lip after saying that, afraid that this might be a sore topic.

“Maybe,” Ben answers, and Hux thinks it’s not evasive. Ben seems truly unsure. “One of them, I think. You’re killing the mood.” He squeezes Hux’s thigh and gives him a weak smile.

Now he’s definitely trying to deflect. Hux is tempted to delve into this further, mildly jealous of anyone that had ever been that close to Ben, but decides it’s not the right time or the right tactic. Instead, he leans down and kisses him tenderly, trying to convey _I love you and I’ll kill anyone that ever hurts you_ in the gesture.

Ben doesn’t try to stop Hux again, or tell him he doesn’t have to offer the same affection. He submits to it, and Hux takes his time with every touch of lips and hands, something far more powerful than simple lust stirring in his core with every gasp and soft cry he coaxes from Ben. When it’s over, Hux relaxes into Ben’s arms and holds him until his breathing is soft and even, and then Hux too drifts to sleep.

 

 

The weather the next morning lends its character to their parting from Hux’s family; the sky is a pale, washed-out blue, and the air is crisp and breezy as though the storm has scoured the town clean. As Hux finishes packing, he finds that the crushing dread that he’d come to Tully with has been lifted; his soul feels unfettered, able to move forward.

Ben is clearing his things out of the bathroom when Donnie appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Hux looks up from coaxing Millicent out from under the bed, and smiles at him. He’s actually going to miss his little brother; he can almost hear Brendol saying something like “ _well, hell, that alone was worth giving up the ghost.”_

“You staying a couple more days, then?” he asks Domhnall.

“Yeah. Holly and I are going to help Ma go through Dad’s stuff. Papers and all. I wish you didn’t have to go.”

A week ago, Hux might have heard that as _you’re an asshole for going instead of helping us_ , but now Hux sees the open regret on his brother’s face, and he returns the feeling. “I wish Ma wasn’t going to be here by herself.”

“Yeah,” Donnie sighs. “We offered to have her stay with us. She said no.”

“I know how she is,” Hux says, depositing Millicent in her carrier and clicking the grate closed.

“Tell her to come to Chicago,” Ben interjects, zipping his suitcase closed.

Hux glances at him, thinking that his plans for Ben when they get home absolutely do not include his mother being in the next room. His expression must convey some of that, because Ben turns his face away to hide a smile from Donnie.

“If I thought she’d say yes, I’d offer,” Hux says, crossing the room to pick up the picture of he and his father and Donnie from his desk so that he can pack it.

“If you thought she’d say yes to what?” Aislain looks in over Domhnall’s shoulder, startling them all. She has always had a mystical way of appearing out of thin air.

“Want to come live in Chicago?” Hux tries, grinning when she makes a face.

“Absolutely not. And you two are having your wedding here.” She squeezes Donnie’s arm, and peers in at Ben. “You tell those city-folk parents of yours they’ll just have to get used to that idea.”

Hux studies Ben’s face when he responds, though doesn’t see anything beyond amusement. “I’ll tell them.”

“I’m serious,” Aislain intones, and her eyes flick to Hux. Before her expression can crumble with the sadness in her eyes, she smiles at him and disappears down the hall. He hears her shoes on the stairs a moment later, descending.

They stay for breakfast, and promises are made all around: Donnie and Holly will come visit them in Chicago for Halloween, which is Hux’s favorite holiday and will involve a pub crawl the likes of which would make Brendol proud. Ben and Hux will come down for Christmas, which is Aislain’s favorite holiday.

Somehow, in all the exchanging of dates and the formulating of plans, it’s decided that Ben and Hux will have their wedding at Hux’s family home in eleven months. Aislain is still discussing plans for it when she kisses them both goodbye at the door, and Hux is flustered enough that he doesn’t manage to argue with any of it.

Ben doesn’t either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes from little ol' me:
> 
> \- the smut in this chapter is dialed way back to fit the tone, but C 7 won't get that treatment. Just, be warned. ;)
> 
> \- I'm going one of two ways with this story now. Either I'll wrap it up in C 7, or I'll go forward and tell more about their relationship as it grows and how Ben finally reunites with his estranged family. Any thoughts on this are welcome. I've really enjoyed writing this, and enjoyed everyone's comments and support.


	7. Might As Well Dig It A Little Deeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.

Hux is jolted out of a pleasant sleep by the wheels of the plane thumping down on the tarmac, and he stirs with a yawn that stretches into a lazy smile. He rubs his cheek against Ben’s soft t-shirt, inhaling his clean scent and subtle woodsy cologne, then turns his face up to kiss his neck. Unfolding himself from his nap against Ben’s shoulder, Hux finds that he’s still holding Ben’s hand, and surmises they must have kept their fingers twined the duration of the two hour flight from Atlanta.

While the last minute trip had been a hassle on the way down, Hux had been able to plan a more direct return. Glancing out the window to see the sun still shining, Hux immediately begins to catalogue things he wants to do. _Get rid of the labels on the shelves of the refrigerator. Clean out some drawers in his bedroom for Ben’s things. Definitely move Ben’s stuff into the bigger master bath because the jacuzzi would be a perfect place to relax together after work. Maybe they can do that tonight before bed…_

Hux turns back to Ben, light-headed with the anticipation of starting a new journey on the heels of one that feels blessedly complete. He finds that Ben is looking out the window as well, chewing on the inside of his cheek, eyes distant. Hux squeezes his hand.

“What do you think we should have for dinner?” Hux’s pulse rises a little at the idea that they can make these kinds of prosaic plans together. He absolutely feels like a ninth-grader with his first boyfriend.

Ben looks at him and says, deadpan, “Grits and bacon.”

Hux scoffs, but leans over and nuzzles Ben’s shoulder again. “We could go out somewhere,” he says hopefully into Ben’s ear.

Turning his face to press a cheek to Hux’s forehead, Ben nods. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”

Hux smiles. “It’ll be our first real date,” he muses aloud, pulling his phone out of his pocket and turning airplane mode off. Seconds after it finds a signal, notifications begin to pop up on the screen. Hux thumbs open his text-message inbox; all the messages are old, still unchecked, as Hux had turned his phone off while in Georgia.

_Sunday 7:14 pm_

_Phasma: Sorry about your dad buddy. Call me if you need me._

 

_Monday 8:21 am_

_Mitaka: I’m so sorry to hear about your father, Armitage! I’d like to send some flowers for the service. Could you tell me the address? Some others in the office would like to chip in._

 

_Monday 3:45 pm_

_Mitaka: I’m sorry to disturb you. I just hoped that you got my message. Do you want to send me the address so I can send some flowers? I’m keeping you in my prayers._

 

_Tuesday 7:30 am_

 

_Mitaka: I hope I haven’t done anything to upset you. I know you’re probably just busy, with the service and family. I just wanted to say again that I’m thinking of you. If you need anything, please call._

 

_Wednesday 8:02 am_

 

_Mitaka: When will you be home? Do you want to get together and have a drink?_

 

“Fuck,” Hux mutters, sighing, and Ben hums an inquisitive. “Dopheld…the guy I went out with Saturday night. Not sure he got the message.”

“What message?” Ben asks, finally letting go of Hux’s hand to unbuckle his seatbelt as the plane rolls to a stop.

Hux shows him the phone screen and its log of received texts.

Ben frowns, brows pulling together and making a crease between them. “What does he want?” His tone is cautious, like he might not like Hux’s answer.

“Just um…wanting to send flowers,” Hux explains, backpedaling a bit.

Ben’s expression is frozen for several seconds, but then clears. He grunts an acknowledgement and stands to open the overhead bin. Stretching his arms above his head makes his t-shirt ride up just enough to give Hux a glimpse of the trail of dark hair below his navel, disappearing into his low-slung jeans. Hux’s mouth actually waters, and he almost laughs at himself because of it. _How thirsty can one man really be?_

Hux unfastens his own seatbelt, but hesitates before standing up; in his experience, the other people in the aisles who always seem to lurch into into motion well before Hux never offer to move aside for him to join them in stretching his legs. He typically remains perched on the edge of the row waiting for his chance to dive into the stream of exiting passengers when one of them happens to catch his eye and is kind enough to stop.

Scooting over into Ben’s recently vacated seat, he reaches down and pulls Millicent’s carrier up gently from the floor and sets her beside him. Hux feels sorry for her, as this had to have been a traumatic experience, and he determines that they’ll go to the pet store on Wabash Street and get her a new set of catnip filled mice this evening.

Hux turns his gaze away from the cat and looks up at Ben, and their eyes meet. Ben moves his hand, brushing a thumb over Hux’s cheekbone, tickling over his cheek, tracing his jaw, and Hux’s lips part in a small inhalation. Ben slips his thumb just the barest bit between his lips, leaves it there long enough for Hux to flick his tongue over it and start to instantly rearrange the schedule of things he has planned for the evening in favor of getting Ben naked and in bed as soon as possible.

Ben smirks at him and pulls his hand away just as the people in the aisle ahead of him begin to move toward the exit. Rather than move forward, Ben inches back, blocking all the would-be inconsiderates behind him and creating an open space for Hux to stand up in. Ben already has Hux’s roller-bag sitting next to the seat, and Hux thinks he could easily get used to this sort of thing.

“You’re lovely,” he murmurs, not minding the split second he makes everyone wait while he leans in and gives Ben a tiny peck on the lips. Ben’s answering smile is worth it.

They have no luggage to wait for at baggage-claim, and so they make their way out of the airport at a languid pace. Once they emerge into the passenger pick up zone, Hux sets Millie down at his feet and uses his phone to summon an Uber. The motion of thumb swiping over the screen makes the watch on his wrist catch the sun on its silver case, glinting. Hux ques their ride and then turns his phone over in his palm and looks at the hour the old fashioned way; the watch had been his father’s, pressed into his hand just before they left that morning. Aislain had insisted Brendol would have wanted Hux to have it, though Hux isn’t sure what the man himself would have said about it. Nevertheless, it reminds Hux that there is both time, and not time. There are hours left in life to do the things he wants, and there is no time, ever, to waste. That, Hux thinks, Brendol would have agreed with.

He glances over at Ben, whose face is turned up toward the cloudless blue sky, eyes lidded and skin bronze-brushed by the golden afternoon sunlight. Hux’s heart swells in his chest with gratitude for him, for all the moments in Georgia that Ben had held his hand and refused to let him drown. Hux makes a promise to himself that he’ll always be there for Ben as well, and then wonders if that’s what sharing a life with someone you love is: trading strength back and forth when it’s needed, so that there’s space and safety to be fragile when you need to be.

Their Uber pulls up before Hux’s inner monologue can become any more of a Shakesperian sonnet, and he happily settles into the back seat beside Ben. Millicent’s carrier is wedged between them, and Hux rests his arm on it as he scrolls to the message he’d received from Phasma and types out a reply thanking her for the well wishes. Before he hits send, however, a thought occurs to him that makes a pulse of adrenaline speed his heart. Hux presses the camera button, then glances at Ben and says his name softly.

Ben turns his head, and Hux leans over the cat carrier, making his intention clear with up-tilted chin and lidded eyes. Ben accommodates him without objection, and as soon as their lips touch, Hux presses the camera button.

The angle of the picture isn’t perfect; the top of Ben’s head is cut off, and the sun is a glare on the window behind them that makes Hux’s hair bright orange, but the message is clear. Ben is even smiling against Hux’s lips, while Hux himself looks rather like a desperate damsel leaning out of a tower window.

“Nice,” Ben concludes, looking at the haphazard first photo of them as a couple.

 _Nice, indeed_ . Hux is going to print this, frame it, and hang it on the wall the first chance he gets. For now, he just types the caption beneath it “ _So this happened in Georgia, too,”_  and presses send. He keeps the phone aloft where Ben can see that the message goes to Phasma, and it’s only a matter of seconds before her reply pops up.

_“About damn time.”_

Hux cannot help his answering grin, though a measure of surprise bubbles to the surface. “Did she ever try to set us up?” Hux glances at Ben, raising an eyebrow.

Ben shrugs, not meeting his eyes in favor of looking at the phone, as though Phasma might provide a response on his behalf.

Hux’s brow furrows. He wouldn’t put it past Phasma to have orchestrated some sort of long-con on them both, but had she ever suggested to Ben that he ask Hux out, and Ben refused? If so, why? He starts to ask him, but then his phone beeps again. This time, however, it’s Mitaka. Again.

_“Hey again! Just wanted to know if you got home safely. Thinking of you. Call me?”_

“Persistent fucker,” Ben growls, narrowing his eyes at the phone.

Hux snorts. Mitaka is a nice guy, and Hux feels a mixture of pity for his wishful misconceptions, appreciation for his overtures as a friend, and annoyance at his tenacity. Hux begins to key in a response.

“ _Just got in! Thank you for the thought about flowers. There wasn’t time to reply earlier. Been a crazy few days.”_

He starts to hit send after that, but then is struck by an idea so bold it makes his pulse climb. He adds, just to see how it feels, “ _Connected with a long time love of mine while I was there. We’re getting married!”_ It’s completely absurd, definitely tactless, but hell. Hux is already in this hole, right? Might as well dig it a little deeper.

He hits send, and looks at Ben with a smile tugging at his lips. Ben’s face is blank, and he meets Hux’s eyes slowly, seeming to plaster on a smile as an afterthought.

“Was that too much?” Hux mumbles, afraid he’s crossed some line, and reminding himself forcefully that they aren’t engaged. Never were.

Ben answers by shifting a hand to stroke his knuckles across Hux’s jawline, guiding Hux to him with two fingers beneath his chin. Hux loses himself in Ben’s soft kiss, phone forgotten for the moment even as it buzzes in his hand. When they finally part, Ben’s eyes linger on his, the afternoon sunlight turning them amber and green flecked, and Hux only barely swallows questions which burn so close to the surface that they are stirred by the barest suggestion. Does Ben really want to get married? Is that why he’d said they shouldn’t tell Hux’s family? Does Hux himself want to get married? If Ben suddenly asked the Uber driver to make a stop at the courthouse and suggested they go inside and make it official, would Hux tell him no?

 _Probably not_.

Their ride pulls up outside 34 Spring Street before, thankfully, Hux articulates any of this, and then they are distracted by gathering Millicent and their bags. Ben unlocks the door while Hux pauses on the front stoop to examine the twin clay pots of brilliant red petunias that are in desperate need of water. In his haste, he’d forgotten to ask anyone to look after the plants for him.

Millicent mewls unhappily from her carrier where it’s sitting on the top step. “Okay, okay, Princess,” Hux laughs, straightening and moving Millie inside and out of the heat. He unlatches the cage and the orange tabby bolts across the living room and down the hall, disappearing into Hux’s room.

“Someone is glad to be home,” Ben comments, watching her abscond.

Hux shuts the front door and turns the lock. Leaving his bags where they are, he crosses the few steps between him and Ben and reaches up to twine his arms around Ben’s neck. “I’m glad to be home,” he murmurs, stealing a gentle kiss.

Ben smiles, draping his arms around Hux’s waist and pulling him close. “Are you? You know that means you have to do chores, and go back to work.”

Hux brushes the side of his thumb across the back of Ben’s neck, tickling the longish dark hair. “Is that all it means?”

Ben’s eyes lid, and a nearly imperceptible shiver runs through him at Hux’s touch. “You had something else in mind?”

Hux’s answering laugh is slightly off-pitch. “I have quite a lot of things in mind,” he informs Ben, sliding his arms down, across Ben’s chest, catching his fingers on the hem of his shirt. “None of them involve clothes.”

Ben’s embrace suddenly tightens, flattening Hux to him with a hard kiss. Then he lets go and is moving away from Hux, leaving Hux with just a handful of t-shirt that he releases at the last moment. Ben circles the kitchen island, going to the refrigerator and opening it, and Hux looks after him with a modicum of confusion. He tries to think of some way to say _so, wait, you don’t want to have sex?_ but nothing comes to mind.

“You want a beer?” Ben asks as bottles clink.

Hux would be fine if he never saw another alcoholic beverage, actually. “Um, no thanks.”

Ben looks at him then from his stooped position, the refrigerator door held open by his hip. He must have registered something on Hux’s face, because his eyes soften. “Do you still want to go out tonight?” He stands, letting the door swing closed too hard, in Hux’s opinion; it makes the condiments in the shelves rattle alarmingly.

“We can,” Hux tells him, though his enthusiasm for leaving the house, now that he’s inside it, has waned considerably. “Or we could just order take out and watch movies.”

Moving around the island again, Ben wraps his arm around Hux’s waist and presses a kiss to the side of his head “Whatever you want to do, baby,” he murmurs into Hux’s hair, and Hux melts against him with a sigh.

“I just want to be with you,” he tells Ben, cheek pressed to his shoulder. He feels Ben shift against him, taking a long drink of his beer, and then the bottle chinks against the granite island, empty. Hux has rarely seen Ben drink a beer that quickly.

“I’m going to go unpack,” Ben tells him then, letting Hux go a second time. He moves down the hall, taking his bags with him, and goes into his room. Hux half expects him, for some reason, to shut the door, such is the pervasive sense of unease that has fallen over him.

Hux stands staring at the empty hallway for a long moment, wondering what it is that he expected upon coming home. For Ben to carry him to his room, shedding clothes as they went, and make passionate, romance-novel love to him? For Ben to be desperate to slake a thirst the two of them have denied for two years? Hux cycles through the recent few days in Georgia, and pictures, vividly, the several times Ben had rejected his advances, or been slow to warm to them. How he had only reluctantly gotten in the shower that day, and had taken convincing to allow Hux to go down on him. Is Ben maybe just…not attracted to him? Had he just been trying to placate Hux because he felt sorry for him?

Hux almost marches down the hall and demands that Ben tell him the truth, but a glimmer of reason suggests that this is mildly psychotic behavior that will undoubtedly turn Ben off. Instead, he picks up his bags from where he’s left them by the door and carries them to his room. He can hear Ben moving around across the hall, drawers opening and hangers shifting along a closet rod. Hux lays his suitcase on the bed and unzips it, feeling foolish now for the thoughts he’d had of making space in his dresser for Ben to move his clothes into it. Of course Ben didn’t want to do that.

He’s so absorbed in his morose self-doubt that he jumps when Ben speaks from the bedroom doorway.

“So, um…pizza or Chinese?”

Hux gives him a cursory glance, lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Whatever.” He means to come across as amenable, but it sounds a bit sullen. He pulls a pair of trousers out of his suitcase and inspects them for more closely than necessary for wrinkles, seeing Ben fold his arms out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t look at him for fear that his face will reflect the sudden well-spring of uncertainty he feels.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asks, concern tinging his words. “If you’d rather go out, that’s okay too. Just tell me what you want.”

Draping the slacks over his arm, Hux pads over to Ben, plastering as confident a smile on his face as he can muster. “Let’s stay in,” he says, leaning in to kiss him again. Ben curls an arm around Hux’s waist before he can back away, his lips warm and soft, and Hux sways into him, one hand on Ben’s chest for balance. Hux deepens the kiss, and Ben makes a low sound, dropping his hand from the small of Hux’s back to the curve of his ass, squeezing gently.

Hux purrs. “You could take off all of my clothes and have your way with me instead of a movie,” he offers, glancing up at Ben through his eyelashes, heart in his throat.

Ben slides his hand up Hux’s back, smoothes it through his hair. “We have time for that later, don’t we?” He dips his head forward, pressing his nose alongside Hux’s.

A huff escapes Hux’s lips before he can suppress it, and he forces it into a sound more like laughter even though he’s quivering slightly with nerves. He feels like he’s already naked, actually, standing on a stage with an entire auditorium laughing at him. _And goddamnit, his fucking cheeks are flushed._

“Yeah,” he says, pulling back. “We have time. Later.” Hux turns away, and instead of moving to his closet to hang up the slacks in his hand, he tosses them in the white wicker laundry hamper by the bathroom door. When he glances back at the door, he sees that Ben has disappeared, and he hears the refrigerator door open and close again. Hux blows a steadying breath through his nose, though agitation makes his skin prickle hotly. He tugs a shirt from his suitcase, starts to unfold it, then crumples it into a ball and throws it in the hamper after his slacks. A steady stream of laundry follows, including clean socks still folded in neat little squares that come apart when he throws them. When the entire mess is topped up by a pair of dress shoes, Hux curses himself and walks over to retrieve them from the basket. His eyes dart to the door again, hoping Ben isn’t hovering there watching him have an anxious temper tantrum, but he’s not there.

 _Get it together, Hux_ , he tells himself, walking the shoes in his hand to the closet and forcing himself to lay them neatly on the shoe rack. He’s not really upset with Ben, or at him not wanting to take things further yet. This is all new; even though they’ve been friends for years, it’s like they’ve come back from the trip to Georgia in different skins. And Hux has bared his in a harsh light, replete with scars and imperfections that Ben must see so much more clearly now.

“Fuck me,” Hux whispers to himself, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso for a moment, standing in his closet still with one foot firmly in the rabbit hole. His nails dig into the flesh of his bicep, and he has to forcefully relax his fingers, make himself take a deep breath. He reaches up and bunches a fist over the dogtags beneath his shirt, squeezing them hard, and then thinks that perhaps they were just a temporary thing as well. A memento of reprieve, something Ben had always meant to take back but hadn’t yet decided how to ask for them.

Hux takes a deep breath and lets go of the dogtags. “All right, you fool,” he mutters. “You spent enough time hiding in the closet for one lifetime.” He forces himself back out into his bedroom, and goes through the motions of changing into pajama pants and a t-shirt. He scoops Millicent off the floor on his way to the living room, holding her against his chest like a feline shield.

Ben is on the couch, another beer in his hand and an unopened one on the end table beside him. He has the remote control resting against his knee, which is drawn up beneath him, and he’s thumbing through Netflix. The smile he gives Hux is warm, and he picks up the pillow that is taking up space beside him as though to make room for Hux.

Hux hesitates just a moment before settling on the couch, sitting a bit stiffly with both bare feet on the floor, but he thaws when Ben drapes an arm over his shoulders and pulls him close. Tucking his legs beneath him, he leans against Ben’s side, thinking wistfully how perfectly they fit together. Beyond the glass patio door, the birch tree in the tiny expanse of front lawn undulates in the wind, all white bark and pale green leaves, and Hux imagines sitting here like this, safe with Ben, looking out this same window as the seasons slowly change. Their tree will be brilliant yellow in a couple of months, and after that snow and ice will turn its bare branches into an ethereal sculpture that will glitter in the light. Hux had always thought it was beautiful, and that tree was one reason he’d picked this flat, but it would be more beautiful now because he could enjoy it this way.

Ben’s finger makes a pattern on the back of Hux’s neck, tickling the hair at his nape. “You really love that tree,” he says, and Hux’s eyes go wide.

“How’d you know I was thinking about it?”

Ben just smiles and shrugs one shoulder.

Hux regards him with a certain amount of wonder, then sets Millie down on the couch beside him so he can curl his arm around Ben’s thigh. He turns his face up for a kiss, and feels the knots in his chest start to unravel beneath Ben’s touch, akin to magic.

“Will you sleep with me tonight?” Hux murmurs dreamily into the kiss. Then he pulls back abruptly, realizing what he’d said. “I mean, just…share the bed. Like we have been.”

Ben’s eyebrows meet over his prominent nose, then one lifts slightly. “Doesn’t that come with having a fiancé?”

Hux’s lips tuck into a thin line. “Don’t tease me, Benjamin Solo.”

Ben’s eyes sparkle when he smiles, and he brushes his lips against the tip of Hux’s nose. “That’s only intimidating if you use the first, middle, and last name. And really only effective if you’re my mother.”

“What is your middle name?” Hux pretends to try to get away from Ben’s lips, but doesn’t put much effort into it. The very least of things that can be said about the two of them is that they’re masters at deflecting.

“Lukas. And my last name is actually Organa-Solo, but I got in a habit of not using that in middle school. Too many extrapolations.”

Hux’s mouth falls open slightly, appalled that he should be learning this now. He pinches the meat of Ben’s thigh. “How could you not correct me after two years? That’s like...not knowing what color your eyes are or something.”

“Benjamin Oregano. Benjamin Organ. Ben Organ Solo. Benjamin Soloing his Organ….”

Hux plants his face in Ben’s neck and laughs, hard. “Oh my god, stop.”

Ben is vibrating against him, his laughter a warm breath in Hux’s hair. “You asked.”

Hux’s anxiety has dissipated beneath his mirth, and he nuzzles Ben gratefully. “Well, no more soloing your organ from now on.”

“Jesus,” Ben groans.

“Don’t get him involved,” Hux admonishes, looking up at him in mock seriousness. “Three’s a crowd.”

Ben leans down and bites his bottom lip. “You’re bad,” he purrs lowly.

Hux hums low in his throat, an acknowledgement of sorts, and kisses Ben, soul full to brimming with the heady thrill of this new thing. Ben’s hand rests on his neck, encompassing it, steady and possessive feeling, and Hux loves it. When Ben finally pulls away, when their breathing is no longer languid, but husky and elevated, Hux chases his lips before forcing himself back, blinking. His fingers are clutching a handful of Ben’s jeans, and he flattens his palm against that thigh now with shallow strokes, like petting a cat.

“So,” Hux says, then has to clear his throat where the desire sits like a some delicious morsel he can’t swallow. “Netflix and chill?”

Ben rolls his eyes and huffs, smiling. “Do you ever stop?”

Hux points to the TV. “Netflix.” He waves his hand vaguely at their forms in repose on the couch. “Chilling.” Ben laughs, and Hux suddenly thinks to himself that he could retire tomorrow and just spend the rest of his life entertaining him.

“What do you want to watch?” Ben asks. He picks up the remote again from its precarious position on the back of the couch, and thumbs through their communal watch list. _Exciting sci-fi movies with surprising twists. Movies with tragic heroes. Documentaries about war._

Hux shrugs, smiling to himself at the way they’ve already been building their life together, and just hadn’t quite caught up on an emotional level. “Anything you want,” he says. It could be the worst movie he’d ever seen, and Hux would enjoy it as long as he’s with Ben.

  


Turns out, the movie isn’t too bad, though Hux would hardly call _Dawn of the Dead_ romantic. He and Ben spend more time discussing their potential plans of action should the zombie apocalypse actually occur and picking apart the various characters’ errors in judgement, than actually watching the movie.

Halfway through it, Hux orders them Chinese and they break out a bottle of red wine, so by the time the heroes are breaking out of the mall on their souped up church bus, Hux is pleasantly toasty and draped across the couch with his back to Ben’s chest. Ben’s cheek is resting against Hux’s head, soft breath stirring his hair, tickling just a bit, and his arm is resting loosely around Hux’s waist.

“Okay,” Hux comments, brow furrowing. “A chainsaw on a moving bus is not a good….oh, shit. Yeah, that’s about where I thought that was going to go.”

Ben quivers with laughter, vibrating through Hux. He nuzzles Hux’s neck, rolls his hips forward, and Hux realizes with utter surprise that Ben is hard, his erection pressing against the soft meat of his ass. Hux twists around, eyes round and wide.

“This turns you on?” he asks incredulously.

Ben makes an ambiguous noise, tugs Hux closer to him and slips his hand beneath Hux’s t-shirt. “I stopped paying attention a while ago. Other things on my mind.”

Hux’s eyes lid coyly. “Is that so? Such as?” He presses his hips back, grinding against Ben and eliciting a low groan. Ben doesn’t respond verbally, but dips his fingers below Hux’s waistband, large hand cupping Hux’s still soft cock and making him gasp. “Oh,” he breathes, eyes closing fully now and movie forgotten. Reaching up, he tangles his fingers in Ben’s hair, kneading his scalp and coaxing out a throaty purr.

Hux is filling in Ben’s palm with every pulse of his heartbeat, blood singing warmly through his veins. He starts to settle into the pleasant thought of Ben stroking him to climax here in his arms, then taking him to bed, but then Ben moves his hand, settling it on Hux’s hip.

“Turn over,” Ben tells him, leaving Hux in a temporary state of motionless confusion as he tries to work out which way to go. But then Ben clarifies. “Toward me.”

Hux rolls over to face Ben, grateful for their extra large sofa with its overstuffed cushions. He settles beside Ben, trying to leave enough space for between them for Ben’s hands, but that doesn’t seem to be what his lover has in mind. Hux is pulled flush against that larger body and lips meet his with the lingering floral tang of wine. They just kiss for a moment, melded together, Ben’s hand cupping Hux’s face with a thumb hard beneath his jaw. Hux is breathless when they finally part, and starts to suggest they go to the bedroom, when Ben’s index finger moves to Hux’s lips.

Hux makes a noise of inquiry, not quite understanding this game but eager to get on with it, and then Ben is pressing his middle finger against Hux’s lips instead. He’s gentle about it, but insistent, coaxing the bottom lip down, pushing the rough pad in, and his fingernail scuffs against Hux’s front teeth before Hux gets the picture and opens his mouth. Ben slips the finger in fully, and Hux tongues it, sucks with light pressure, and hopes he looks sexy doing it. Ben’s eyes are fully trained on Hux’s mouth, and just as Hux is beginning to wonder at this mating ritual, Ben replaces his finger with his tongue, and this time the kiss is hard, needy. Ben’s hand slides back beneath Hux’s waistband, palm plying Hux’s ass cheek, and then fingers dip between his cleft and Hux _finally_ understands.

Hux gasps into Ben’s mouth, lets out a muffled groan as Ben’s still-wet finger finds his entrance, tracing the outline of it as Hux grips Ben’s t-shirt, tugging at it as he tries to sway back into Ben’s touch. Then Ben breaks their kiss for a moment, peering at him with eyes gone dark with swollen pupils.

“Do you still want me?” he whispers hoarsely.

Hux’s brows come down at the inanity of that question, not understanding how Ben could doubt the desire that must be emanating from Hux’s very flesh. He leans forward, biting Ben’s bottom lip. “Fuck yes, I want you.”

Ben whimpers at the words or the pain, Hux doesn’t know, but responds with more pressure against Hux’s slicked hole and breaches him. Hux inhales sharply, rocks back, picturing himself opening for Ben as he slides his finger deeper. He works it in with slow, shallow thrusts, curling it slightly, seeking Hux’s pleasure point, and when he finds it, Hux’s whole body jerks and he cries out, burying his face in Ben’s shoulder.

Ben’s hips move in rhythm with his hand, unconsciously, maybe - his animal instinct driving him to rut against Hux’s fully hard cock, seeking friction. Hux responds, rolling his hips forward, trying to get closer, needing _more_.

Hux realizes then that he’s said that word out loud, voice a raspy plea. He grips Ben’s arm, making Ben’s fingers flex against his ass. “More,” Hux repeats in Ben’s ear.

Ben complies, and Hux feels a second finger exploring his entrance, start to press in. Hux’s grip tightens around Ben’s bicep, and he bites his lip at the stretch. He tries to sort through muzzy memories to recall when last he’s had anything inside him this way, but everything is too clouded with lust and all he can focus on is Ben’s touch. Hux is sure that Ben could bring him off with just his fingers, knowing exactly how to massage his prostate, pushing him closer to climax with every thrust.

“Ben…” Hux gasps as he feels himself slipping toward a precipice. “Wait. I want to… _ahh_...come when you’re inside me. Not yet.”

“Mmmm…” Ben kisses him, stilling his hand. Hux is panting against his chest, lower back tense with holding back. “I’m not sure you’re ready for me,” Ben says softly into Hux’s hair. There is no hubris in his tone, and Hux thinks he might be right; he’d had his lips wrapped around Ben’s dick, and his jaw had ached afterward.

“I’ll be fine,” Hux insists anyway, and whines softly at the loss when Ben withdraws his fingers.

“Bedroom,” Ben says shortly, nudging Hux with his knee.

Hux does not need to be told twice. He rolls over and off the couch, heart racing and belly fluttering as he moves down the hall. The shift of soft fabric over his erection is almost over-stimulating, and he shoves his pants over his hips and kicks them off before he even gets to his door. Stripping out of his t-shirt, he imagines he probably appears vastly over-eager, but decides that he doesn’t care if Ben sees how badly Hux desires him.

Once he enters his room, however, Hux suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself. Sit on the bed, sprawl out on display? His hesitation lasts only a moment, however, for he sees Ben out of the corner of his eye and turns to look at him just as he’s pulling his own t-shirt off. The rest of his clothes follow, and then they are naked together at the foot of Hux’s bed. Ben crosses the few steps between them, putting his hands on Hux’s hips and guiding him back until his legs bump against the mattress. Hux sinks down onto it, shifts up across the quilt toward the headboard as Ben drops to his knees on the bed, lips instantly going to Hux’s hip bone.

Hux writhes in pleasure, stretching his arms up over his head, curling his fingers into a pillow. He arches up toward Ben’s mouth as it peppers wet, kitten-soft kisses over his hips, along the crease between thigh and torso, breath warm and tickling the hair below his navel. Ben’s long mane, spilling down over his face and hiding him from Hux, brushes over Hux’s cock and makes him thrust up, seeking more friction, though Ben doesn’t give it to him yet.

At that moment, Ben raises his head from kissing Hux’s belly and looks at him from beneath thick dark lashes, and Hux’s breath catches in his throat. He moves his foot, stroking the toes up Ben’s leg.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he tells him, and Ben actually blushes, turning his face away immediately to hide against Hux’s skin. He trails kisses up Hux’s stomach, walking himself up Hux’s body. As soon as he’s in reach, Hux has his hands on him, tangled in his hair, stroking down his arm. Ben drops to his elbows, one on either side of Hux’s head, and kisses him with a tenderness that makes something in Hux’s chest twist. He thinks perhaps he has never wanted anyone this much, this completely.

Ben’s cock is heavy against Hux’s belly, and he’s balanced on his knees between Hux’s legs, which are spread for him and inviting.

Hux nips at his jaw, tongue darting out to caress Ben’s earlobe, making him shudder and smile. “Are you going to fuck me?” Hux purrs.

Ben’s fingers make runnels through Hux’s hair. “Impatient. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Hux huffs, and wraps his long legs around Ben’s hips. He puts both hands on Ben’s chest and pushes while throwing his hips to the side, and he upsets Ben’s balance enough to roll him over and straddle him. Ben’s eyes go wide, both eyebrows lifting.

“As you can see,” Hux preens smugly, “I can take care of myself.”

“I can see that,” Ben laughs, hands moving to Hux’s waist and tugging him down for another kiss. “Where is your lube?” he murmurs against Hux’s lips.

Hux remains in Ben’s lap, but reaches over and clatters his bedside drawer open, blushing red when the first thing he sees is his last purchase from Bad Dragon. He shoves the bright purple aptly named _Tentacle_ back into the recesses of the cubby lest Ben catch a glimpse of it. He takes out his bottle of lubricant, wrapped nicely in a clean linen hand towel. Shaking the towel off, he uncaps it, pouring it into his hand, rubbing it in to warm it up.

“I’m woefully out of practice,” Hux tells Ben, self-consciousness starting to seep in now that things seem to be imminent. He reaches behind himself and wraps his slick fingers around Ben’s cock, wrist rotating as he drags his hand up the shaft, and Ben gasps and arches up.

“Doesn’t feel that way,” Ben argues, eyes lidded.

Hux thumbs the sensitive head, making Ben groan, and then suddenly realizes he’s missed a step in the process. “See, I’ve done this out of order.” He dips his thumb into the slit, through a pearl of precome. “I forgot the part with the condom.”

Ben grunts, frowning. “We don’t have to.” Then he opens his eyes fully, looking suddenly anxious, like that might have offended Hux. “If you don’t want. I’m clean.”

Hux strokes his palm back down, and Ben’s expression goes slack again, lips parted. Rather than responding, Hux shifts up on his knees, angling Ben behind him and pressing back. His stomach is in knots, breathing shallow with anticipation. His thighs shake as Hux sinks down slowly, forcing himself not to cry out at the stretch, which is almost too much. Ben’s hands are vice-tight on Hux’s hips, sure to bruise him, but it’s a delicious counterpoint of pain that Hux focuses on as he takes Ben’s cock.

Pausing once, panting, Hux finally drops his weight, seating himself fully, and allows himself a guttural groan. “Holy fuck,” he says, shifting his hips to adjust to Ben’s size. Ben makes a noise in response, and seems to have to force his eyes open. He lets go of Hux’s hip, stroking a hand over the dog tags Hux still wears and down Hux’s chest, which is rose pink. Hux can feel the flush in his face, and the sweat beading on his forehead.

“You’re beautiful,” Ben murmurs, palm on Hux’s belly. He stretches his thumb out to brush over the head of Hux’s cock, and it makes Hux’s hips snap forward. They both cry out then, and Ben’s head falls back against the pillow. He is flushed too, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as Hux starts to move.

He’d been worried about being out of practice, about not pleasing Ben, but they just _fit together_ , and Hux finds his rhythm easily. Ben feels incredible inside him, and Hux controls the angle so that every down stroke drags across his prostate, and he has to stop, more than once, to keep from coming too soon.

Ben’s hips thrust up to meet him, and Hux can hear the wet slide of his dick despite the fact that Hux is _loud_. He finds Ben’s hand where it grips Hux’s thigh, drags it up his chest, hovering the fingers over the hard nub of his nipple. Ben squeezes, looking at him with glazed eyes, plush bottom lip pinched between his teeth. The other hand wraps around Hux’s cock, and Hux gasps, falls forward.

“Oh, god...I’m so close, Ben,” he moans, trying to regain his rhythm, but his hips stutter, knees turning to jelly. He grunts in surprise when Ben moves suddenly, sitting up with Hux still in his lap. Ben curls one arm around Hux’s waist, holding them tightly together as he tucks his legs beneath him and then drops Hux onto his back, sinking down on top of him. He pulls mostly out, and then snaps his hips back, hard enough that Hux shouts, digging his nails into Ben’s back. It’s a matter of perhaps thirty seconds before the tight coil in his belly snaps, and he comes untouched, biting into Ben’s shoulder to try to muffle a scream. That seems to drive Ben over the edge, because his hand snags in Hux’s hair and Hux feels him pulsing inside.

Ben collapses against him, and Hux savors his heavy weight, feeling like he needs to cling to him to keep from floating into the stratosphere. He keeps his legs wrapped around Ben’s hips, heart hammering, joined to Ben with sweat and sticky release.

It’s a long moment before Ben finally moves, and Hux hisses as he withdraws. He’s going to be sore as hell tomorrow, but he doesn’t care. Rolling over, he fits himself against Ben’s chest. Ben puts his arm around him, ruffling Hux’s hair affectionately.

Neither of them speak for some time; all the comments that pass through Hux’s head sound inadequate, or silly. Ben’s eyes are closed, the rise and fall of his chest slowly turning to normal, cock softening against his thigh. Hux can feel come between his thighs, but doesn’t mind it.

Out of nowhere, Millicent launches herself onto the bed, sits down, and stares at them with large, baleful green eyes. For some reason, this makes Hux giggle, which seems to infect Ben, until they are both laughing, clinging to each other. By the time it subsides, Hux feels like something has fallen fully into place, like whatever bit of anxiety about this new thing has been burned away by their incredible chemistry.

He kisses Ben’s cheek, which is damp with tears of laughter. Ben turns and looks at him, eyes the color of amber. Happy. Hux just stares, enchanted, and reaches up to stroke Ben’s face. He remembers that face several days ago, looking at him in shock as Hux stood in his doorway and admitted that he’d fabricated an engagement. He’d gone to bed thinking it had been the stupidest, most ill-advised thing he’d ever done. Now, he’s fairly sure it was the crowning moment of his lonely, half-lived life.

“I’m glad you asked me to marry you,” Hux whispers.

Ben’s lips curl up in a secretive smile, and he catches Hux’s fingers, pressing a kiss to them. He doesn’t let go of Hux’s hand, squeezing gently, and says quietly: “Me, too.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone that has been along on this journey with me. It's been so much fun, and I'm looking forward to working on the sequel, which will tell Ben's story and explore how new relationships with complicated partners aren't always smooth sailing. 
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr! If you want a notification when I add the new story, you can subscribe to me as an author! <3


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